


Cracks in the Pavement

by naughtyspirit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Anal Sex, Baby, Boys Kissing, First Kiss, First Time Sex, Longing, Love, Lust, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Parenthood, Romantic Tension, Sex, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post His Last Vow, John's choices haven't resolved everything completely. While Mary enjoys a girlie night, John visits Sherlock in search of some adventure and finds it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a few weeks since I could last write anything Johnlock, not because I don't believe in it, (my ship is still sailing happily, thank you) but because Series three altered how I saw them both. This piece isn't quite as fluffy or smutty, (yet) because I'm feeling my way through. However, I have had such kind and thoughtful commentary and help from the good people who read my work and I dedicate this to all of you. This is where I currently am with johnlock. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> As always, all comments and smoochies welcome xxx

John's wedding ring gleamed dully under the weight of the afternoon sun.

He flicked idly through the inbox, occasionally voicing the subject titles to catch Sherlock's attention. Each dismissal made him grin, coming as it did with a simple but irritating explanation of the case. Magic was always dull when you know how it was done and despite John's understanding that backstage was just another job, he still marvelled at the outcome of elaborate tricks. He liked sitting in the chair while Sherlock acted out the mysteries of the known universe, waiting for the moment when Sherlock paused, hawk-like, unsure of the explanation and ready to grab his coat. Those were the fragments of his life that he lived for and Sherlock never failed to provide them.

"I think my girlfriend was Finnish in a past life. She speaks it fluently when she sleeps."

"Is he a linguist?"

"Er, no," said John as he scanned the email. "He hasn't known her long and she says she's from Essex."

John glanced up to see if Sherlock would make some comment, some parallel, but Sherlock could have been asleep to the casual observer. John noted the tilt of his head, aware that Sherlock was listening out for something other than John, possibly just for something interesting. He hadn't moved since John walked in, his eyes fluttering open briefly as John asked if he was busy and received a quick snort in reply. John had shifted his chair back into place, unsure if it had been moved in the middle of a sulk this time or because it had been in the way in John's absence. Since he'd returned to Mary, the chair seemed to wander and John didn't know where it lived when it sat elsewhere.

Today it was in the living room, though not quite where it should be. John counted it as a sign he was expected and wriggled comfortably in its cushioned depths, his thumb against the phone.

Sherlock waved a hand vaguely toward John, eyes still closed. "Any particular phrases?"

"Nothing he could recognise."

"And her job?"

John scrolled down and frowned. "Says she's unemployed."

Sherlock sighed. "Spends much of her life on the internet or watching late night telly. Repeats slang while she sleeps. Next."

"Ah, okay," said John, his thumb pressed to the screen. "My boss is stalking me?"

"Police work at best. Next."

"I'm sleeping with a vampire?

"No, no," said Sherlock and sat up. "Look, if you're just popping round here to irritate me with petty scandals, at least pick something interesting."

"Most people would think that _is_ interesting," said John. "The cinemas are full of it."

"Then go watch," said Sherlock and glanced over. "Dinner, is it?"

"Hmm?"

"The reason you're here. Dinner with someone you don't particularly care for. Not sure who, though. It could be anyone."

"I'm not having dinner," said John and set the phone down on the arm of the chair. "Mary's having a girly night."

"What?"

"Girl's night in," said John and lolled back in the chair. "Bunch of her mates round. I don't know. They watch videos, drink wine and slag off their boyfriends."

"Of which you are not one," said Sherlock. "You don't count."

"Husbands. Partners. Whatever," said John. "Just means I'd rather be anywhere but there."

"And so you're here."

"Yep," said John and tapped his fingers against the arm. "You don't get between a woman and chocolate cheesecake."

He smiled absently, aware that there were worse things you could attempt to get between. Blackmailers and best friends, to give a hurtful and rather recent example. Sherlock didn't seem to notice and having stated that Mary could be trusted, that her past could be ignored once John had made his choice, he'd said no more. Mr Last Word had left the subject alone and John quietly wished the topic was still on the table. He was surrounded by liars and cheats and his choice was not between which one told the truth, but whose lies made the bigger impact. Disappearing for two years seemed paltry next to a hidden life, though John was clear which one hurt more.

His heart wore its scars well and he shifted on the cushion as he watched Sherlock, reassured by his presence and unwilling to discuss it. John was home at 221b. His cozy little house offered none of the familiar clutter and his dreams remained eager for action. His regular visits to Baker Street came equipped with excitement, the promise of something new and always Sherlock. The changes he'd made in Sherlock's absence faded away when they were together and John knew he'd trade every last success in the surgery for a single shared and breathless grin in the dark streets of London.

In the dark they were partners. In the daylight John made mention of cheesecake and murderous wives.

"I see," said Sherlock and licked over his bottom lip before he leaned forward. "And so you came here to paw through your phone and tempt me with paltry offerings?"

"I thought we could do something," said John. "Doesn't have to be rubbish. You could pick something."

"I'm not bored."

"You're home," said John. "On your own. Of course you're bored."

"Not so bored I have to avoid the woman I married for a full six hours _before_ her friends turn up."

John swallowed and pushed up out of the chair. "Well she was cleaning up," he said. "And Mary can't drink so she's indulging. More cake than I can eat."

"I don't think that's likely," said Sherlock. "Tea?"

"Yeah, you stocked up?"

John walked through to the kitchen, mugs on the counter and milk in the fridge. He sniffed it cautiously and winced as he looked back at Sherlock. "I know you shop."

"When I need to," said Sherlock. "The sell by date-"

"I know about that," said John. "But this stinks. It's," he paused, sniffed and gagged. "Jesus, Sherlock, how long's this been in here?"

"Does it matter?"

John paused, set the milk down and shook the sugar container. It failed to rattle and John glared back at Sherlock. "Online," he said. "Shop online. Get it set up."

Sherlock waved his hand toward the laptop and looked to John. " _You're_ good at that."

"You can crack passwords and codes and I'm pretty sure you picked up programming while I wasn't looking. You can order your own groceries."

"Boring," murmured Sherlock and got to his feet. "You can always take it black."

John winced. "Oh fine. And you can drink yours without sugar."

Sherlock glared. He stepped into the kitchen and opened the cupboards before he looked back at John. "There's whiskey."

"Whiskey or tea? That's my choice?"

"Or water."

"No, fine, crack open the bottle," said John and fished two tumblers from the shelf. "Just a small one. I'm driving."

"That's not what you're doing," said Sherlock.

"Hmm? I've got the car."

"Yes, but you're not driving home _tonight_ ," said Sherlock. "Your room's still set up."

"There's nothing in the room," said John. "Wasn't much when I lived here."

"As I said," said Sherlock and sloshed whiskey into the glass before he passed it over. "Don't worry, John. Maybe someone will walk in off the streets."

John took a sip and frowned. "I'm not bored."

"Did I say you were."

"Right," said John. "We're good now. Got it out in the open and there's the baby."

"Of course," said Sherlock and drank slowly. "Is it kicking?"

"A bit, I think," said John. "Mary says so."

"Good," said Sherlock and smiled. "So everything's fine."

"Completely fine."

Sherlock nodded and headed to the living room, sprawling some as John followed. Things fit neatly into the 'fine' umbrella. He'd felt the baby kick in bed that morning, his hand resting firmly on the bump beneath the thin cotton. His palm registered the movement and John smiled, happy until he looked across at his wife and caught the expression on her still sleeping face. Just a hint, a suggestion of a woman he didn't know and never would. He loved her before he knew there was more and loved her still, but his wife was not who she was and John lived in the lie, feeling it butt against the happiness he'd felt.

He'd kept his hand still and the words in his throat died there. He'd wanted to share with Mary, but this woman was still a facade. He'd offered all he could, admitted all he could and determined he would live a full life with the woman he called Mary, but the tiny moments where he felt the lie were building up. Sometimes he just looked at her and wanted to ask where she came from. There was never a question of reading the file, too impersonal, but to hear it from her, to hear just a snapshot of a past she'd buried deeply would have been something. A first name, a pet, a loved one from long ago, just pictures that he knew nothing of and never would.

Sherlock lolled on the sofa, one foot bobbing against the edge of John's chair. "What kind of vampire?"

"Hmm? Oh, I don't know. Blood sucking one."

"You're very descriptive tonight."

"I'm just not big on vampires."

"Who is?" said Sherlock and grinned lazily as his stockinged foot tapped John's calf. "What did it feel like?"

"A push," said John and waggled his fingers as Sherlock's foot remained against his leg. "She's strong."

"A push? Fingertips? Hand?"

John grinned. "I think it was a foot. It was a bit like…" he dropped his hand and pushed two fingers against the arch of Sherlock's foot. "Twice. She's just moving round."

"I'm sure Mary's reassured by that."

"Yeah," said John and looked down at his glass. "So I take it you're rejecting all these cases because of him."

"Who?"

"Him," said John. "You remember. Short. Slick. Supposed to be dead and seems to have the same habits as you."

"It's in progress," said Sherlock. "I'm hardly the only one in England looking for him."

"The only one looking for him and lounging with the curtains closed in the afternoon," said John and drained the glass. "You want another one?"

"In a bit," said Sherlock. "So this is the plan? Stay at Baker Street, get sloshed while Mary-"

"Can we leave her," said John and as Sherlock arched an eyebrow, he held a hand up. "It's just a lot. Baby, wife, that sort of thing."

"It's what you wanted," said Sherlock and rubbed his thumb idly over the arm of the chair. "Fine. Tell me about the stalker."

"No, no, you were right on that. Police work," said John and filled his glass. "Beneath you."

"You'd be surprised."

"Yeah, I probably would," said John and huffed as he lifted the glass. He let his knees drift apart and watched as Sherlock's foot fell away. "So you're not thinking about it?"

Sherlock set his glass down. "About what?"

"Moriarty."

"No."

"At all?"

"Not now," said Sherlock. "Not when there're _vampires_ to deal with."

He smirked and John hesitated before he took another drink. "I just thought-"

"What?"

John ran his tongue over his bottom lip. The whiskey was good but not great and the temptation to drink a little too much when he stayed at Baker Street lingered at the back of his mind. A little fuzziness, a stag night and a hell of a hangover the day afterward. He paid for the drink, but he privately considered it was worth it, if only because he giggled more that evening than he'd ever done with Mary. She could be fine, could be everything he needed to get on with his life, but even before the day she put a bullet in the man opposite, she hadn't quite been everything. Very close, but not the full package.

It was her understanding that he missed most of all. Mary just got it, had looked at John and seen Sherlock and clearly filed away that they were a pair, men who needed each other to enjoy life. He'd felt happy at how inclusive she'd been, how he'd been encouraged to go out and play, to take up the challenge and run with Sherlock. He'd thought he'd been lucky to have such an understanding wife, but Mary could have run herself and didn't. As much as John wanted to believe it was because she'd moved on from what she was, the nagging feeling that she didn't want to share hadn't gone away.

Her generosity had allowed John to leave unspoken the truth about being one half of the single being he shared with Sherlock. He'd long since accepted that they loved one another, that familiarity had bred affection and trust, in spite of a lie so big it almost consumed him. John knew his vices and caved into them when he could, running through the streets of London with his life in the balance. A two year gap hadn't dampened that flame and he could have coped. Freedom with Sherlock and domesticity with Mary, hard muscle and mind to run with and a warm body in the suburbs.

Substitute was not a word in John's vocabulary at all.

He licked his lip again and tilted the glass. Better to get drunk than deal with warm bodies in Baker Street.

"I thought you'd be on it all the time."

"You know how I work."

"Pretty much. Which is why I know you're thinking about it."

Sherlock picked up his drink and sipped. His tongue made a brief appearance, touched the edge of the glass and he looked back at John. "It's in there somewhere."

"And you're not doing anything about it?"

"Nothing to be done," said Sherlock and leaned forward, one hand trailing against the edge of the chair. Not drunk yet, not close after the little he'd drunk, but his mouth hinted at a smile and John warmed his belly with whiskey.

"So," said John and tilted the glass, watching the liquid slosh into the corners. "Maybe we should do one."

"One what?"

"Girly night." John glanced over at Sherlock's eyebrows and grinned. "Blokes night."

"Meaning what? I don't have cheesecake, although if it's really something you want, I'm sure Mrs Hudson-"

"Hmm, no," said John and sat up, far too close and not drunk enough. A memory, still relatively recent, seemed to decorate the back of his mind, just out of reach. Just a thought, a memory of being lectured on social constructs of beauty and the delicious and easy understanding that John was in the presence of a man who found him beautiful. His eyesight had been fuzzy, his brain unable to keep him steady on his feet, but John had recognised lust quite clearly. He'd seen it, strolled round it and planned to do something the evening became something else.

He woke in the harsh light of a cell and Sherlock had focused entirely on the case the following day. And then, marriage to a woman John couldn't trust, no matter what Sherlock said. Marriage and trouble, the truth slamming home as John reeled from it and Sherlock had almost gone. He had said his goodbyes, made John smile and left, only to return within minutes, the game never over and the villain that had parted them still at large.

John licked his lip, his hand settled on the edge of the chair as he grinned at Sherlock. "I meant we could go out."

"What for?" said Sherlock.

"Get sloshed, like you said."

Sherlock huffed. "Getting drunk is hardly productive."

"It'll produce two drunks," said John. "That's as productive as I need."

"We don't need to go out to do that," said Sherlock and reached for the bottle. "If you need to move in for a few days, it's fine."

"Why would I want to move in?"

"Home life unsatisfactory," said Sherlock and ran the glass against his bottom lip. "You can stay here."

"I know," said John. He smiled and tilted the glass. "Keeps me sane, that thought."

He caught sight of his wedding ring as he lifted his arm. Dull, he noticed, the sheen on it already muddied, as though it had been years instead of months. Not cleaned and yet John hadn't removed it, not once, not even when he'd wanted to. John made vows less frequently than Sherlock imagined and he'd meant every word he'd spoken to Mary Morstan. Mary Watson wasn't quite that woman and beneath it all he was frightened that they both knew it couldn't last, that it was doomed not because she'd killed, but because her business wasn't quite over.

"You don't need sanity," said Sherlock idly. "You thrive in the most insane of places."

"You mean married to a woman I didn't actually wed?"

"I was there," said Sherlock. "You did and I didn't mean her. And anyway, I thought you wanted a night away from Mary?"

"I do."

Sherlock drained the glass again and looked back at John appraisingly. John bore the inspection well, arching his neck slightly, his face closer than it should be to a man who always saw far too much, often far too late. "What does it feel like?"

"What?"

"The ring," said Sherlock and gestured. "You never take it off. Not even to clean it."

John looked down at the band and turned it, his thumb registering how warm it felt. "It doesn't feel like anything."

"Must feel like something," said Sherlock. "You put it on. Well, Mary put it on."

"Not Mary, not tonight."

"But she did put it on and you can't bear to take it off."

John grinned, humourless. "I'm married."

"Doesn't stop most people," said Sherlock. "Must get in the way at work. All those latex gloves to snag."

"It's not a problem."

"No?"

"No," said John and shook his head, the movement a little awkward as the whiskey neatly did its job. His focus was a little off, but he stretched out a hand and lightly touched Sherlock where he judged Mary had put her own mark on him. "Is it still pink?"

Sherlock glanced down. "It's fading."

John nodded and moved his hand over slightly, his fingertips brushing the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. "Can I see?"

"Sure," said Sherlock and lifted his hand to unfasten from the neck down. "It hasn't changed much since you last saw it."

"When I last saw it, you were still bleeding," said John and lifted his hand as Sherlock's fingers brushed against his own. John moved, pushing open the sides of Sherlock's shirt, index finger drawing fabric back until he could see the place where the skin hadn't quite levelled out. The dip in Sherlock's flesh, pinker than he'd hoped, stood out clearly as a sign that whatever forgiveness was in place, they were both marked by the woman in the suburbs.

He looked back up at Sherlock's face, not entirely surprised to be watched. John offered a grim smile and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock frowned. "What for?"

"That," said John. "This. You being out of commission for so long. I know it was torture."

"No, I've actually been tortured. That was just mildly annoying," said Sherlock and smiled. "It's fine."

"Yes, but it's not," said John, his hand still very much pressed to the shiny feel of Sherlock's skin. "This shouldn't have happened."

"It did."

"I know that," said John. "But it shouldn't." He pressed his palm flat to Sherlock's belly, obscuring the scar, his thumb rubbing against the smooth surface. "And I am sorry for that."

"John, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," said John and took a quick drink before he looked back at Sherlock. "You should have answered faster."

"Answered what?"

"My request," said John. "You know what I asked."

"I wasn't dead," said Sherlock. "I did that."

"I didn't know."

"And now you do."

"And now I do and now you've been shot," said John and put the glass down, his hand shaking. "I wanted you to be here."

"I'm here now," said Sherlock and shifted in his seat, his knees touching John's, John's hand lower on his belly. "John," he began and paused, before he offered up a smile of his own. "You can stay here. Long as you need."

"Good," said John and licked his lip. "It might be very long. Be careful what _you_ ask for."

"Fine," said Sherlock. "Anything you want."

"Anything?"

Sherlock nodded. John had read papers on judging the moment a person slips from sobriety, noting the signs that couldn't be ignored. Some of them were remarkably close to arousal, the same increase in dopamine that last time he'd ignored. John had never considered Sherlock's face an open book, had always looked for the second expression that crossed his face when they were in company, but alone he was always stripped bare or closed in. Tonight he was stripped, John's hand still on his belly and the warmth of the whiskey on his tongue.

So here it was, the question he'd never asked, not even in the privacy of his own head. If John had been Sherlock's entirely, had been more than his friend, would Sherlock have left before Mary had waltzed in with the sensible choice? He stared back, Sherlock clearly waiting for some answer to John's question and John only knew that he was better in the moment and rubbish at planning. Every choice he'd taken, every decision that he'd made and remained comfortable with had been dependent on a moment's choice.

He moved in with Sherlock with barely a night's thought. He shot a man to save him, turned down Mycroft's generous offer, chose Sherlock every time but one and that time, he'd planned, had a speech all thought out as he failed to ask Mary to marry him. So the prepared words he'd offered acted against John's own best interest. A baby on the way and the man who made life joyous at his fingertips.

John barely hesitated as he leaned forward, the stubble on his upper lip grazing Sherlock's own as he took the kiss on offer. He kept his eyes open, bemused that Sherlock did the same, his tongue brushing against the full bottom lip he'd absently thought would feel soft and didn't. John kissed as he sensed Sherlock observing, registering what was happening between them before he joined in, meeting John and offering up his mouth as eagerly as he took everything else.

John wasn't sure what he expected, having witnessed Sherlock in the role of boyfriend. He didn't expect tenderness, or the hand that pressed against his jawline, all long fingers and sensitive touches to his skin. He didn't expect the warm, open mouth that kissed him back, salty sweet and wet as Sherlock slid his tongue into John's mouth to taste for himself. And really, here he was, married and about to become a father, kissing his best friend and equal with barely enough whiskey to blame.

It was Sherlock who drew back first, his hand sliding from John's face to the fingers pressed against his belly. John was certain Sherlock would pull his hand away, but he pushed harder, maintaining the connection as he spoke.

"Are you still here?"

"Hmm?"

"If I want it," said Sherlock. "Are you?"

"Of course," said John quickly and turned his hand awkwardly to catch Sherlock's own. "Do you?"

Sherlock smiled and glanced down. "Haven't hoovered," he said. "But we could risk the floor."

"Does everything have to come fraught with danger?"

"No, it doesn't," said Sherlock. "But you know the drill."

"Ah, John Watson likes dangerous things," said John. He took a quick breath. "The thing is, I don't think you're that dangerous."

Sherlock grinned. "How dare you!"

"I dare," said John and licked his lip before he leaned in again, his hand sliding down to brush against Sherlock's inner thigh. He squeezed the muscle there, long flanks that he'd touched before, but not like this, not with implicit permission. The back of his hand nudged the bulge of Sherlock's dick, still hidden, barely acknowledged by either of them until now. John's own erection strained, heavy, hard and trapped in his jeans as he spread his legs wider. "I want to see your bedroom."

"You've seen my bedroom."

John sighed. "Bedroom, now," he said and got to his feet, gripping Sherlock's hand as he pulled him along.

"John," said Sherlock and stilled. His thumb rubbed along the slim ring on John's finger, dull but relevant and John lifted his hand to look. The light still slid in through the window, fading some, but still there and while it didn't glint, the gold was still visible to them both.

John gave a quick nod before he reached out and plucked the ring from his finger. The skin beneath was pale, soft and slightly moist to the touch. It looked naked to John and he set the metal circle on the client's chair before he looked back and risked a smile. "Now," he said and Sherlock took the few steps that led along the narrow hallway and opened the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have spent the night together and it just works. But John isn't a single man and Sherlock isn't a one night stand.
> 
> Smut. Much smut. Much nakedness and a lot of talking.

The sex was amazing and John wished he'd done it before.

The pillow felt wonderfully soft beneath his head, cushioning him as he caught his breath and felt the sweat trickling over his shoulders and chest. He'd long suspected that if Sherlock were ever to have sexual urges, he'd quickly become an impressive lover, incapable of doing anything without intent. His plan had clearly been to render John Watson immobile, glowing with sweat, his loins hot and tingly to the touch and Sherlock had accomplished it in languid, delicious movements that John had banked for later recollection.

He sprawled on the bed, naked and smiling as Sherlock leaned over John and licked lazily at his nipple. It peaked beneath the flat of Sherlock's tongue and John moaned, his back arched on the mattress as he abandoned himself completely to Sherlock's affection. He lifted his head when Sherlock slid down, hand grasping the absurdly jumpy length of John's cock. John caught Sherlock's fingers and shook his head as his lover looked up.

"Give me a minute."

"You sore?"

"No, not that, I'm just a bit…" John tugged until Sherlock moved close enough to kiss. His lips felt a little swollen, his chin and cheeks reddish from their activities. John lifted his hand with some difficulty, stroked it along Sherlock's jaw as he sucked on the wriggling tongue on offer. It felt like a delicious age before Sherlock broke the kiss and John determined to lock away the memory of his smile in the moment, gentle, uncalculating and rare. John licked his bottom lip. "I need to get my breath back."

"You're breathing normally. A little fast, maybe, but that's only natural given what we've been doing."

"All right, I need a rest," said John and as Sherlock looked back toward his softened cock, he cleared his throat. "Haven't you got lists and stats on refractory periods?"

"Nothing every applies to you," said Sherlock and stretched out on his side, his chin resting in the crook of his arm and his opposite hand resting against John's chest. He stroked idly, fingertips tracing signs, sigils on John's skin as John watched him relax.

"I knew you weren't straight," said John absently and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say you don't like women-"

"I don't like women."

"That's not true."

"I don't dislike women," said Sherlock. "I just don't feel the need to drag them to bed."

"Oh. Right," said John and nodded as he moved gingerly, his body pressing against Sherlock so that all the gaps between them were closed. "But Irene Adler? And Janine?"

"You know about Janine," said Sherlock. "Hardly fraught with sexual tension."

"Fine. What about Irene?"

"Not that," said Sherlock after a moment's thought. "She was something else. Something unique."

"Oh great," said John. "I have to compete with something unique."

"I would say of the two of us you have the easier win," said Sherlock and rubbed lightly over John's nipple.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning Mary," said Sherlock. "Motherhood is one field I'm never going to master."

John swallowed lightly and sat up. His skin still shone, a lovely pink in most places and there were bite marks on his shoulder that wouldn't fade for some time. He didn't lift his hand but he was very much aware of the fine pale line that stood out on his ring finger. A night wouldn't remove it, no matter how incredible the company.

Sherlock's hand fell to John's thigh and squeezed there slowly, apparently untroubled by John's flickering guilt. "If you want the statistics on marital infidelity-"

"I don't," said John and reached for Sherlock's hand and threaded their fingers together. "The stag night."

"Hmm?"

"I was thinking about doing this, then."

"Oh yes," said Sherlock as he curled against John's body. He pressed slow kisses against the curve of John's hip, his tongue touched to the salty skin on offer. "I'd drunk too much. It increases arousal and removes the ability."

"Huh," said John. "Well I was pretty horny."

"Are you pretty?"

John grinned and squeezed the hand in his own. "I'm fucking gorgeous," he said and smiled at the chuckle against his back. "God, I'm a selfish twat."

"Yes, you are," said Sherlock. "And your backside is beautiful."

John attempted to look over his shoulder. "I'm cheating on my wife."

"No, you've already done that," said Sherlock. "This is simply an observation. You _do_ have a beautiful backside. I'm very impressed. Your clothes don't do you justice."

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"You're not listening to what I'm saying."

"I heard you," said Sherlock. "What do you want me to say? You've cheated on Mary. You're an adulterer."

"Thanks. I feel much better now."

"You're welcome."

"I feel like shit."

Sherlock sat up leisure, sliding round and into John's lap, his long legs stretched out and pressed to the headboard. He wrapped his arms round John's middle and kissed him, John's guilt apparently without effect on his desire. Sherlock kissed his way across his cheek and John shivered as Sherlock poured languorous syllables into his ear.

"You feel like silk against my skin and I refuse to believe anything so extraordinary is entirely wrong."

"You get high," said John. "Isn't that extraordinary?"

"Mundane," said Sherlock. "Compared with you. You're real."

"I'm an arse," said John and hugged Sherlock, arms wrapped round tight. "I make bad choices." He felt Sherlock shift slightly and hugged him tighter. "Not you. I don't mean you."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Mary's a bad choice?"

"Uh, yes?" John almost laughed. "Yes, I mean aside from the fact that she tried to kill you-"

"She really didn't."

"She shot you," said John. "You stopped breathing. I was there, remember?"

"Not really. They did have some rather wonderful drugs."

"I was there," said John. "And I loved her. I really loved her. You just…" he sighed. "You have no idea."

"I know something of it," said Sherlock as he rested his head against John's shoulder. "You still love her."

"I love Mary Morstan," said John. "And it turns out she still doesn't exist."

"She's at home right now."

"No, that's not her," said John. "I've tried. I've really tried and sometimes it works for a bit."

"It's worked for some time."

"It really hasn't," said John. "I thought I could do it. I was certain of it. But I just look at her and I don't know anything."

"John," said Sherlock and lifted his head to meet John's eyes. "I've never heard you deliver a confession without fearing for your heart. While we're in the middle of strenuous activities, could you try to task it a little less?"

"It's not a confession," said John. "God knows it's not. It's just that I can't keep asking her to lie. I can't keep guessing which bits are true and which bits she's made up."

"You know what she is."

"I know what you've told me," said John and frowned. "You said I could trust her."

"You can," said Sherlock. "She wants to be Mrs Watson. She does love you, John."

John cleared his throat. "Naked and in your bed. Not sure what you're doing here, Sherlock."

"We're making pillow talk?"

"Pillow talk does not include my wife."

"Oh."

"Well it doesn't."

"You brought her up."

"Because I'm cheating on her by sleeping with you," snapped John and paused, laughed and looked back at Sherlock. "I'm sleeping with you."

"We haven't actually done a lot of sleeping," said Sherlock and gestured vaguely to the window. "The sun's up."

"Sleeping's not on the agenda, then," said John and stretched a little before he drew Sherlock in closer. "It'll have to be sex, then."

Sherlock slid his hand between them, wriggling his fingers along John's belly until he had a firm grip of John's cock again. John groaned at the contact and covered Sherlock's hand with his own, fingers outstretched to wrap round Sherlock's erection. He could feel Sherlock stiffening against his palm, stretching out alongside his cock as he stroked firmly, holding them together.

John hadn't dabbled with men before, his knowledge of what other men liked built firmly on his own preferences. Sherlock hadn't quibbled, clearly enjoying John's attention to a chorus of rumbling moans. John hadn't been entirely sure he was effective until he kissed Sherlock's nipple, his tongue rolling over the tiny nub of flesh as he rolled and gripped Sherlock's cock. Sherlock hadn't come immediately, but he'd clutched the back of John's head and bucked up into his grip. The slick spend had coated John's fingers shortly afterward and John had breathed a private sigh of relief that Sherlock could enjoy sex.

He was an eager lover, languid between courses and almost boisterous as they fucked. John had been rolled under and over, his body always in contact with Sherlock's own. He swore that Sherlock delivered the best blow job he'd ever been fortunate enough to receive. He'd come so hard that his ears seemed to ring, one side deafened for almost half an hour afterward. It had been delicious and John had felt his cock throb in Sherlock's mouth when he'd finally opened his eyes and looked down. In all the time they'd been together, John hadn't expected to be so caught up in watching Sherlock suck his dick, nor been able to predict how twitchy his cock would feel only moments after coming. The sex was extraordinary and some time in the early hours of the morning John realised that one night wouldn't do.

In the warm morning light, his hand slowly wanking them both to what would undoubtedly be another satisfying climax, John kissed Sherlock and sucked at his tongue. Sherlock, generous to a fault with something he actually wanted, shifted eagerly, his fingers squeezing and rubbing along with John's own. It had _all_ been mouths and fingers, impatient and eager and though John really wanted to press Sherlock to the bed and drive deep into the surprisingly plump and tender arse that rubbed against his inner thigh, he held that little bit back. He wasn't sure he would be able to leave once he'd taken that step, that in some place deep he'd ascribed what they'd done so far as almost playing.

"Stop thinking," murmured Sherlock and John licked at Sherlock's shoulder.

"I'm thinking about you."

"Liar," said Sherlock.

"I'm not!"

"You are," said Sherlock and drew his tongue along John's neck. "Think about what we're doing. About your hand wrapped round my penis, how hot it feels. How slippery your skin is. You're sweating. I'm sweating. You're hard in my hand and I can feel how wet the head of your erection is. You're going to come. Any second now, you're going to come and I can feel it, the way you throb against me."

"Sherlock," said John as he bucked harder into their interlocked fingers. "Shut up. I can't-"

He closed his eyes tight as he spilled, feeling the liquid squirt between his fingers, slicking them both together. His hand squeezed reflexively as he throbbed and he felt the heat, the warmth and the almost imperceptible gasp Sherlock gave as he came. John felt Sherlock's teeth against him, the skin pinched between neck and shoulder and couldn't bring himself to care in the slightest. It wasn't as though he could walk out of here and hide anything of himself.

John sighed, his chin settled against Sherlock's shoulder as his breathing settled down again. Naked, entangled in Sherlock's arms, John felt some semblance of peace, comfort in knowing that he could be entirely himself. He never had to hide in Baker Street, no matter what. Sherlock might see everything in seconds, but he rarely offered judgment to John and only when anyone else breached the threshold. He lingered as long as he dared, his skin damp and his hair tousled where Sherlock ruffled the short strands.

"I think I'll move in for a while," he said quietly and Sherlock nodded, stubble scratching John's shoulder. "I don't think she'll say anything."

"I'm sure she'll say quite a bit."

"I mean, I don't think she'll throw a fit. She doesn't," said John and huffed. "It's not what she does."

"Well it wouldn't be good for the baby," said Sherlock.

"Yeah, this isn't about that," said John. "Sherlock, you _do_ understand what I'm saying?"

"You're going home, gathering some clothes and moving back here for a few days. Your wife hasn't objected before, mostly because she had little ground to stand on, however in this case you do have an ulterior motive and it's likely she may raise some objection."

"You think she'll know."

"That you're not moving here for a case? Oh yes, she'll know that."

John sat back and reached for his t-shirt. He swiped at his belly, cleaning up as best he could before he climbed off the bed. "You don't know that. You don't know everything."

" _You_ think I do."

"Hah, watch the ego there," said John and frowned. "So I go back there, she'll know what we've been doing?"

"I imagine so," said Sherlock and lay back on the sheets, one arm behind his head as he watched John gather his clothes together. "She asked once."

"Hmm?"

"If we'd ever been lovers."

"What?"

Sherlock stretched out his legs, crossing one ankle over the other, ignoring John's expression. "Before you got married, she talked about how cosy we'd been here, just the two of us."

"My wife asked if we'd ever been to bed together? She thought we had? She asked?"

"Why not," said Sherlock. "Everyone else does."

"Yeah, well, everyone else is stupid."

"Clearly."

John hesitated as he held his jeans up and caught Sherlock's smirk. "Shut up."

"I'm saying nothing," said Sherlock. "So you're going to collect your clothes and come back here?"

"Yes."

"For a few days?"

"Yes."

"No."

"You don't want me here?"

"Really not what I said."

"Then what?"

Sherlock unhooked John's pants from the bedside lamp and tossed them over. "John, you're always welcome to stay here, in whatever capacity you feel most comfortable, but you're missing the inevitable."

"Which is?"

"Mary is definitely going to have something to say about this and it won't be a suggestion of compromise."

John shook his head. "She's not going to just look at me and know," he paused. "She is, isn't she? I need to work out what to say to her."

"About what?"

"About me shagging you!"

"Well, I suggest you don't lead with that," said Sherlock and sat up. "John, she does own a gun."

"So do I."

"Yes but you're not about to use it on anyone right now, so let's put that to one side."

"Right," said John and sat on the edge of the bed. "Right. So, I'm going to go speak to Mary, pick my stuff up and come back here."

"Actually," said Sherlock. "You may not have to."

"Sherlock, I'm not lying to her. For God's sake, I think I might be the only one who _doesn't_ lie."

"So your plan is to tell her that, 'sorry, darling, but I might like sleeping with men after all. Sorry if that interferes with our plans'? I'm sure that'll go down well."

"Subtle," said John. "And anyway, I'm not going to say that."

"Well what _are_ you going to say?"

"I don't know. I'll think of something." John reached out, his catching hold of Sherlock's hand so he could lock fingers. "It's not coming out to her. Not that. I'm really not gay."

"Given those bite marks on your shoulder, I don't think that's your best line of attack either."

John grinned and stole a quick kiss. "I mean there haven't been other men."

"Please don't embarrass us both by pretending this is the first time you've been aroused by someone without a working vagina."

"Wouldn't dare," said John. "But it is the first time I've done anything about it."

"Oh," said Sherlock and ran his thumb over the back of John's hand. "That I didn't know."

"Miracles do happen, then," said John. "And what did you mean, I may not have to talk to Mary?"

"You'll have to talk to her," said Sherlock. "I actually said you may not need to go there to do it."

"Meaning what? I should just call her?"

"Quite possibly," said Sherlock. "A quick text last night and you stayed over. Besides, she'll want the car. Thursday's her prenatal class."

"Is it Thursday?"

"Usually happens after Wednesday."

"Shit," said John and rubbed his free hand over his hair. "I need my phone."

"Have a shower, get dressed. You'll feel better."

"Yes, because nice clean skin is going to make all this easier," said John. "Shit."

"You've already said that."

"It's still shit, that's why."

"All of it?"

John turned to look as Sherlock sat close on the bed. Yesterday he thought he was coming to Baker Street for a reprieve, for time with his best friend in which adventure and danger lay. He was exactly right, though he hadn't thought he'd take his clothes off to do it, or that Sherlock would be so indifferent afterwards. And yet indifferent wasn't quite the word for it. They hadn't exchanged sweet nothings in the night, had barely done more than let out noises for most of it. Sherlock had discussed a case as John had bent to his knees and solved it before he'd come.

John wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected from bedding the man. It changed nothing of what he felt. Sherlock was still the addiction, still the reason to go on breathing and he still kept the wolf from the door. All he'd done was take another step along the road they travelled together. The first night he'd spent at Baker Street, John had wanted, had thought of finishing dinner and fucking his way through the night. The thought had troubled him, but they were friends and Sherlock had been very clear about what was off the menu. However, since his return at the restaurant, there had been an extra special on the list and John had no regrets about choosing it.

He was Sherlock's, always had been, but John's other choices had consequences and one nestled in his wife's belly, growing visibly by the day. Soon he'd have more than just Mary to worry about and he had no clue about that. What felt even worse is that John couldn't look ahead, couldn't work out what that would be like. He lived best in the moment and a future stretched out before him that frightened him, fraught with the wrong kind of danger and a troubling, easy to predict outcome.

He leaned in and kissed Sherlock, sucking on his bottom lip as he felt those ridiculously full lips curve into a smile. If he was certain of anything, it was this; Sherlock made life bearable.

"Not everything," he said and stroked his thumb against Sherlock's jaw. "Please don't think I regret this."

"I don't."

"Good," said John. "Because I really don't."

"Yes, I know that," said Sherlock. "I don't want to have to point out the obvious again, but kissing me is quite suggestive."

"Ah, you noticed that," said John and cleared his throat. "Sherlock," he began and couldn't quite resist ruffling the curls above his ear.

"What?"

"Has there been anyone?" he asked and risked looking at the clear eyes that watched him closely. "Have you been in a relationship and no, I don't mean Janine. That doesn't count."

"Does it matter?"

"No. I'm curious."

"Then it does matter."

"I don't know anything about anyone she's ever been with," said John. "I can't even ask."

"Oh," said Sherlock and slid closer. "No. There've been encounters, but no relationship."

John nodded. "Does that make me special?"

"Does that make this a relationship?"

"Isn't it?"

"I asked first."

John blew out a quick breath and nodded. "It is, then."

"Good. I like to have my things in order."

"So I'm a thing."

"A fact," said Sherlock. "A piece of the puzzle."

"Oh, so I'm not the whole puzzle?"

"As important as you are, no," said Sherlock. "You are a significant piece."

"Any minute now you're going to tell me I'm sky or something."

"The sky is essential."

"So it is," said John and stood up. "Okay, I'm going to grab a shower and get dressed."

"Spoilsport."

"Shut up," said John and grinned as he walked to the bathroom. He stopped in front of the mirror and looked at his reflection. He'd always thought only the beautiful people looked at themselves closely, but on this occasion he found himself unable to look away. Here stood a healthy male in his early forties, various scars that lined his body and a significant scatter of pale lines over one shoulder. His feet were a little large for his frame and his belly softer than he'd like. But there was muscle beneath the skin and John could move quickly and quietly when he needed to.

He'd come to terms with the freckles, the sparse hair growth across his skin and the lack of height. John had looked at himself after he'd returned from Afghanistan, aware of the change in age, in the marks and the injuries that he wore. He'd looked again after he'd made love to Mary for the first time, sure that for the first time in an age, John had the potential to become a whole human being again. He'd looked exhausted that day, had shaken as he stood, but he'd felt alive with possibility.

Today he looked less tired, despite the lack of sleep. His skin was sleek with sweat and glowed pink across his chest and cheeks. His penis, a reliable and sensitive measure of judgment was still jumpy, still eager to go, though John was sure he'd need sleep before he did anything with it. And when he did, it was Sherlock's bedroom he wanted to go to. He wanted to wake up at ridiculous hours of the night to hunt down the uncatchable. He wanted to sleep through the day with a rumbling snore against his side. He wanted to reminisce over childhood games and drink with a friend.

He wanted all of it and as he stared at his reflection, John couldn't find the place where he could have that and the pretence at family life he'd given himself with Mary. She might be playing the part of Mary Watson, wife, but he doubted he had the acting chops to keep acting as husband. John stepped into the shower and washed himself down quickly, stubble still visible on his jaw when he walked back into the bedroom for his clothes. Sherlock stretched and took his place in the bathroom, leaving John to dress and sketch out the words that might make sense to Mary.

"You're thinking too hard," said Sherlock as he swept back in, tight wet curls sticking to his scalp.

"I _need_ to think about this. I can't just blurt it out."

"It depends what you're blurting out."

"Well, that I'm moving in here, for one thing," said John and looked back at Sherlock as he pulled on his clothes. "That okay?"

"You know it is."

"I mean moving in," said John. "As in moving out of there."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Oh, _really_ moving in."

"Yeah."

Sherlock nodded. "Fine. Well, there's space."

"I thought I'd take my old room."

"Sensible," said Sherlock. "Sex is still on the table?"

"Yeah, of course," said John. "Not the actual table though, I never know what's been on there."

"I'd clean."

"No, you wouldn't," said John and smiled tightly. "I'm going to be a father, though."

"That's not going to happen on the table."

"No, it's not. It _is_ going to happen, Sherlock. Mary will have the baby."

"Yes, and I'm quite sure we'll be there to make sure everything goes well."

John tugged the comb back through his hair. "I'm not sure she's going to be okay with that."

"Won't know until we ask her," said Sherlock.

"Yeah, she could be fine with this."

"Definitely not," said Sherlock and fastened his belt. He glanced toward the door and back to John. "It seems there's no time like the present."

"Hmm?"

John turned as Sherlock walked toward the door and opened it. John could recognise Sherlock's footfalls walking up the stairs and was usually right about Mrs Hudson. But it was the first time he had heard Mary's feet from Sherlock's bedroom and he stood upright, shoulders square and his hair damp before he stepped toward the living room.

"Hello, John," said Mary as she looked at him. She smiled briefly before she reached out for John's chair and sat down carefully. "My back's killing me. You don't mind if I sit here?"

"Go ahead," said John and sat on the edge of Sherlock's chair. "Didn't know you were coming over."

"Didn't know you weren't coming home," said Mary and nodded as Sherlock walked through. "You've been busy."

"Yeah, it was a good night," said John and glanced up at Sherlock. "I think we need tea."

"No milk, remember," said Sherlock and cleared his throat. "Of course I could always go and pick some up."

He walked out and Mary kept her eyes on John. "So it's not just the sex, then," she said as John looked back at her. "Well, go on then, sit down."

"I'm sitting."

"Might want to be comfortable," said Mary as John slid into Sherlock's chair. "If we're having another bloody talk."

John was quite sure that comfort was the very last thing on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support and thoughtful feedback you've been so kind to provide. This story is enjoyable to write, but it isn't easy. I loved the last series, but boy does it make the story writing process more challenging. So thank you for reading and I hope you're enjoying it too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have spent what turned out to be a deliciously hot night together and John has made the decision to leave Mary.
> 
> That discussion will take place at Baker Street and John's dealings with an ex(sort of) assassin, pregnant with his baby, will have to be handled extremely delicately.
> 
> Good thing Sherlock's subtle then...

The day he met Mary, the weather had closed in and rain threatened from a slate sky.

John, bundled up in too much coat and scarf, eyes focused on the building ahead, had been distracted by her laugh and turned. He searched for the source of the laugh, ready to dismiss it and walk on, but Mary caught his eye mid-laugh and John couldn't look away. She smiled, clearly uninterested in who might care about such a disturbance of the peace. Her confidence, the directness she offered when she saw the man whose stiff upper lip was covered in far too much hair, was irresistible to John Watson. He would have proposed that day, had he known how to say the words.

As it happened, he was spared the actual asking and Mary neatly assumed the role of fiancée as she did everything else. Six months of feeling he mattered, of being given a new purpose and someone whose lead he admired. It was the fabled normal life that promised companionship, regular work and a place he could fit into the society in which he never felt quite comfortable. Mary encouraged John to be exactly what he was and to lie to himself when he felt like it. Life became tolerable and John found pretty moments that made him happy enough to keep going.

And then Sherlock returned and John's moral compass turned North again, for a certain definition of North. All things hard won by Mary had seemed dim in comparison as John spun willingly into orbit round Sherlock again. His wedding day had been defined by the man and even in his wedding  bed with the decadent cotton sheets, heated and warmed by Mary, his thoughts hadn't been entirely on her, or the revelation of her belly. John had never stopped running with Sherlock and on his return he could barely wait to leave, to fill his blog with stories he couldn't quite tell, could often only allude to with excitable words.

He could have lived like that, had hoped to be husband and father, friend and confidante to the only two people he mattered to and who mattered to him. John thought could have worked, was almost sure of it before he found Sherlock on Magnusson's floor. He knew he had to get the balance right and on the day Sherlock had been shot, John thought he'd seen how to manage it. With the scales almost balanced, Sherlock and home, John had taken a premature sigh of relief , agreed to meet Sherlock and then the world changed.

The changed world sat as comfortably as Mary could in John's chair. Her hands rested on the arms of the chair and her coat opened, revealing the swell of her belly beneath the blue of her shirt.

"How're you feeling?"

Mary raised an eyebrow and glanced down at her belly briefly. "Fine," she said. "She's kicking a lot."

"That's good," said John. "Really good."

"Oh it's terrific," said Mary and nodded to his bare hand. "Did you take that off as soon as you walked through the door or before you ran to his bed?"

John licked over his bottom lip. "I don't run, you know that."

"Oh, you do for him," she said and drummed her fingertips on the arm of the chair. "I can't get you to clean the fridge but him? You'd move dead bodies for him."

"He hasn't asked," said John and flexed his hand as Mary tilted her head toward him. "Nor have you."

"No. I take care of my own messes," she said.

"Including me?"

"Don't start," she said and glanced round the room. Baker Street had much to praise, the space, the location and some of the decor, but it was a place meant for men. Women didn't feature here, not in word, lighting or any sentimental photograph. Any photographs in this place were more likely a part of a case, either present or unsolved past.

"So how's this going to go, then? You tell me it's not working out and I say okay and go home? Baby Watson sees her daddy on the weekends?"

"That's…no, that's not what I was going to say," said John and sat up straight. "I know I've behaved badly."

"It's not that I didn't expect it," said Mary. "You were here for months. I spent days wondering if you and he would have just gone for it. I could have accepted it then, I think."

"It wasn't like that."

"Why wasn't it?" she asked. "This didn't come completely out of the blue. Even you must have known that."

John rubbed a hand against his forehead. "I was thinking about you."

"Spare me."

"I was."

"Not all the time," she said. "Months of the two of you, pretending you were friends. You couldn't have got it out of your system then?"

"He was recovering from being shot."

"Oh, so it was inconvenient. I see."

"You were the one who shot him!"

"Come on, if not me, then someone else," said Mary. "He's that sort of person. You've always known that."

John flexed his fingers and set them firmly on his own thigh. "You like him."

"Well, evidently so do you," she said. "What was it, the constant fiddling with his hair or the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It really does," said Mary. "I want to know what finally made you take a proper look at Sherlock Bloody Holmes."

"I don't know," said John. "It wasn't one thing."

"Or did you just wake up yesterday and think-"

"Mary," said John carefully. "I know I'm being an arse. I know what I've done."

"Really?" asked Mary. "Because I thought we'd had the conversation. The big one. I thought it was going to get better from that point."

"So did I."

"I thought we could do this," she said and looked back at him, mouth tight, chin pushed out. "And Sherlock was going. He was on that plane, John."

"I know."

"And it could have just been you and me," she said and sighed before she looked back at John. "You know, before he came back we were happy."

He stared at Mary, the statement lingering between them as he considered it. It wasn't a question, really. John had been saved and he knew it, credited Mary with making life possible again and his proposal had in part been inspired by wanting to stay on that path. He knew what it was like to wake alone in a bedsit, his head troubled by his past and no one to distract him from a bleak future. Mary had changed that. But before her, years earlier, Sherlock had done the same thing and John had become an integral part of his work. He'd tried something similar with Mary, but without the edge of danger. As it turned out, she had always brought that part with her.

"We were happy after he came back," said John.

"Yeah," she said. "But it was different."

"You wanted me to go out with him."

"I wanted you to be happy."

"I was happy with you."

"Not like you are with him," she said and ran a finger lightly over her forehead. "You remember our trip to the Cotswolds?"

John frowned. "When-"

"You don't, do you? Because we'd planned a mini break and you were dragging your heels because I said some of my friends might drop by. You'd packed though, actually put things in a bag and ten minutes before the taxi showed up, you got a text."

"Oh," said John and rubbed a hand against his cheek. "The woman with the dead leg. Turned out she'd been using her prosthetic to smuggle diamonds across from…" he cleared his throat at Mary's expression. "You said not to worry and you had a good time."

"I made the best of it," she said. "He just has to hint he might need you and you go running after him."

"That's not true."

"Or if you do remember that I'm here and he comes after you, pledging his bloody heart and whatever else so you think he's the best thing since sliced bread."

"Most of the time he's a complete dick," said John. "But he's my best friend."

"I think you're going to have to redefine that now," said Mary. "All this bloody time I thought we were safe."

"Well, you are safe," said John. "He did see to that."

"I don't mean me, I mean us," said Mary. "He knew, you know? He knew that you being with me put an end to those troubling feelings he'd been having. He was happier not knowing, I'm pretty sure of that."

"He's Sherlock. No one ever knows what he's feeling."

"Really, John? Because you just have to look at him," said Mary. "Everyone sees it. He could be up to his neck in crime and there he is, looking behind him to see if his John's right there."

"He never looks for me," said John. "You're wrong there. He's always leaving me places. He's a real shit about it."

"Leaves you places where you can't get in trouble," said Mary. "Oh come on, John. I know you're intentionally blind about all sorts of things, but you can't have missed that."

"Missed what?" said John. "I've told you about most of it. I nearly got blown up."

"Because you were trailing after him?" she asked and shook her head. "No, he left you at home that time, John. He manages you, just as much as you manage him."

"Sherlock Holmes does not manage me."

"Yes he does," she said and sat up sharply, her hand sliding to the underside of her belly. John leaned forward, concerned and she waved his hand away. "Don't. You don't get to be sympathetic now."

"I'm not being sympathetic, I just want to know if you're all right."

"My husband is sleeping with his best friend and wants to have a talk. Oh, I'm fine."

"Fine," murmured John and glanced up as he heard the front door. "I'll ask him to go back out."

"Don't bother," she said. "He may as well hear this first hand. You'll mangle all the important bits."

John winced as he got to his feet and opened the door. Sherlock stepped inside, a mostly empty bag in one hand and his hair still tousled and damp. He looked toward Mary before turning back to John and set a hand on his shoulder.

"I can leave you two alone."

"No, it's fine, Sherlock," said Mary. "Pull up a chair. John and I are discussing how come it's taken this long for him to decide he doesn't want a wife."

"I didn't say that," said John as he turned to look at her as she shifted in his chair. "Can we all just sit down?"

He looked back at Sherlock who offered a tight smile. "I'll put some tea on."

"Lots of sugar," said Mary.

"You don't take sugar," said John and sighed as he turned back to Sherlock. "Thanks for this."

"It's fine," said Sherlock and walked through to the kitchen. "You're looking well, Mary."

"It's desertion," she said. "Clearly agrees with me."

"And the baby?"

"Doing well," said Mary. "Not long now, but then you know that. You've probably got a chart."

"On my laptop," said Sherlock and put the kettle on to boil. "Is today the class with the dvd?"

"How to give birth without panicking? Yeah, Mrs Timmins thinks it'll help."

"I'm sure it will."

John stared at them both before he stepped in front of Mary. "Am I dreaming this?"

"Dreaming what?" asked Mary and gestured toward Sherlock. "He was being polite."

"Yeah and that's disturbing enough," said John and looked toward the kitchen. "I thought you said you weren't going to try chatting again?"

"It's not chatting, it's conversation," said Sherlock as he pulled cups and mugs from cupboards. "Mary is our guest."

"Sorry, you'll have to run that one by me again," said John. "You don't have guests."

"We do today," said Sherlock and glanced toward John. He smiled briefly and nodded toward his chair. "Don't let me interrupt. You were discussing your plans."

"Plans?"

"Don't stand there gawping," said Mary.

"I'm not," said John and blinked. "Sorry, have I missed a key part of this conversation?"

"Quite possibly," said Sherlock. "How many sugars, Mary?"

"Three," she said and looked back at John. "Oh, do sit down, John."

John moved cautiously, sat down in the chair and looked between his wife and lover. There'd been moments like this after Sherlock returned, where they'd clearly understood something that John just as clearly did not. He'd written it off as a good thing, as a assurance that he could have both of them in his life. It had been a comfort until the day Sherlock had understood that John's wife was a killer, an assassin who had not quite quit the business. Sherlock's assurances that Mary had meant to miss did John little good. He believed in Sherlock most of the time, but John had been in the ambulance, had more practical knowledge than either of them on likely outcomes. Mary killed people, Sherlock collected statistics and John had patched up the wounded and watched them die.

Sometimes he worried that Mary and Sherlock held entire conversations he was no longer privy to and for a moment he could imagine Sherlock firing off a quick post coital text. John would always need solid evidence, but Mary needed little more than a look. The unhappy similarities between wife and lover were things John preferred to put to one side.

"I'm moving back here," he said quietly. "Permanently."

"Gathered that," said Mary and kept her hand beneath her belly. "So it's you and him now? Just the way you wanted it."

"Me?" asked John and watched as Sherlock walked over with the cup and saucer for Mary. "Ah. Right."

"Well, what with the pair of you having a guest," said Mary and smiled sweetly at Sherlock. "I always knew you liked to stake your claim."

"It helps to clarify my position," said Sherlock and handed John a mug from the tray. He perched on the arm of his chair and swung one leg over the other, elegant with his cup in hand as John glanced up at him. "Mary has less than a month to go, John. We wouldn't want to add any undue stress."

"Like me leaving her?"

"You leaving me is not stressful," said Mary and set the saucer on top of her bump. "I should have seen this coming."

"I thought you did," said John and she shook her head.

"Not now," she said and stared at Sherlock. "You had him here all that time."

Sherlock took a long drink from his cup and shrugged. "John makes his own decisions."

"No he doesn't."

"Hey," said John. "I am _here_."

"God knows you're here," said Mary. "And how wonderfully easy you are to manipulate."

"You don't manipulate me."

"Of course I do," said Mary. "So does he."

"Sherlock Holmes does not-"

Sherlock laid his hand on John's arm and leaned down, his voice low. "You're leaving your wife to move in with me, John. I want you to move in with me. I care deeply for you and while I completely accept that this is your decision in every way, Mary is right. You are incredibly easy to manipulate if it's someone you trust."

"Like you, you mean," said John and looked across. "And you."

"Yes," said Mary and sipped. "Of course you don't trust me anymore, do you?"

"No," said John and sighed heavily before he lifted his mug and drank. "I wish I did."

"I thought you did," she said. "For a while there I was sure of it. And then Sherlock got back off the plane."

"It wasn't like that."

"Oh, it was exactly like that," said Mary. "Because you like having someone to trust, John. You like having that person there to make decisions that you can live with. And when he was gone you trusted me."

"You lied to me," said John and lifted a hand. "Yes. I know it doesn't have any bearing on this."

"Don't be silly, John. It has every bearing on this," said Sherlock and nodded to Mary. "You trusted her because you fell in love with everything she was. And then you found out she lied and you didn't know what to think."

"So you trusted him instead," said Mary. "I thought I'd gone mad when John came back to me. I never thought you'd do that. Thought I must have got you wrong, Sherlock."

"You had me exactly right," said Sherlock. "John deserves to be cared for."

"I cared for him."

"But you wouldn't let _me_ do that," said Mary. "Oh, it was fine when you left on that plane. All 'we'll meet again' and all that, but then you came back and you wanted your John back where he belonged."

"Excuse me," said John. "I _do_ have a say in this."

"Do you?" asked Mary.

"Yes," said John and frowned. "Mary, I will do my best to make sure you and the baby taken care of and if there's anything you need, I'll make sure you have it, but-"

"But you're leaving me," she said. "Me and her."

"I'm not leaving her," said John. "I'm her father. I swear I'll be there for her."

"You swore to me once," said Mary. "Does that not count?"

"Technically he swore to Mary Morstan and you're not actually her," said Sherlock and took in the shared annoyance. "Not helping, apparently. Carry on."

"No, you're right," said Mary and set the cup back on the saucer. "You could have found out who I was. I gave you the drive, but you said you didn't want to."

"I wanted you to tell me," said John. "I didn't want to read it."

"Tough," said Mary and drummed her fingertips against the saucer. "So? What now? You move in here and I lie to the neighbours?"

"You don't have to lie," said John as Sherlock nodded to her. "What? She doesn't have to lie."

"John, you're abandoning your wife for the man the papers are currently calling shag-a-lot Holmes," said Sherlock. "If Mary wants to give people a story, it may be in her best interests. Unless you fancy being referred to as bachelor John Watson again?"

"But you're not," said John. "And I'm not. And I don't care about the papers, I care about," he began  as Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John swallowed hard before he looked back at Mary. "I'll drive you home."

"No, don't bother," said Mary and shook her head. "I've got prenatal today anyway and I don't think I want you with me on that. Although I will get you a copy of the dvd."

"Mary," said John as she moved to get up. "I really am sorry about this."

"Don't be," she said and struggled to her feet before she stared at him. "Actually yeah, do be sorry. Be really sorry."

"He is," said Sherlock and reached out, hand on Mary's wrist. "We'll be there, when you call."

"I'm sure you will," she said. "I'll need someone to yell at."

"I have lots of practice," said Sherlock and leaned down to kiss her cheek.

John watched, his arms and legs numb as the two people who mattered appeared to treat this as a business transaction - the passing of John Watson from Mary to Sherlock. He had spoken, he thought. He had tried to let Mary shout at him, but she wasn't the shouting kind, her barbs carefully crafted to hurt where he was most vulnerable. Unfortunately he was most vulnerable where Sherlock was concerned and John felt things had been handled for him. John was about to move in with Sherlock and it felt as though he and Mary had shook on it.

He stood up as she turned toward him and smiled. Her face, pretty and clever as it always, showed nothing of the hurt he selfishly thought would be there. He had seen her cry, had seen Mary laid bare at Christmas when he'd delivered his speech. John had been certain those tears were real, that she loved him. He had thought that love accounted for all the things she didn't say and all the times she let him off when she should have called him on his wrong doings. If ever there was a thing to be called on, it was the leaving of her, even if he did plan to be father to their child.

There was something in her look, something he wasn't entirely certain of and he couldn't quite put his finger on what she would do next. Perhaps she'd walk out the door to retrieve her gun and put them both down for good. Perhaps she'd report John's own gun, report what he really did to the cabbie and he'd be in a prison cell while she had the baby. He didn't think either were likely but he was tired and the day promised to be long.

She offered a tight smile. "I'll see you at work," she said. "If you could pick your things up while I'm out, I'd appreciate it."

"Yeah," he said and stepped forward to kiss her cheek. She pulled back and shook her head.

"I don't think so," said Mary and swallowed before she stepped toward the door. "I'd do it fast, though. I could go home, think about this and burn all your stuff."

"Oh I don't think so, Mary," said Sherlock. "Absolute nightmare to tidy up after a fire."

"Right," she said and held the door wide open. "I suppose you think we're even now."

"We both lied," said John and cleared his throat. "Take care, Mary."

"I will. Don't worry about that," she said and walked down the stairs.

John watched her go, Sherlock next to him, his hand on the frame of the door. The click of the front door was unsettling. He'd thought there would be a slam, or something that betrayed some kind of anger, but the soft click felt considerate. He frowned and turned back to Sherlock. "How often did you discuss me with her?"

"We talked about you all the time," said Sherlock and blinked when John growled. "Not this, I admit. I didn't ask her what you were like in bed."

"That's a comfort," said John. "Why do I feel like I'm dreaming?"

"Well, you didn't get much sleep," said Sherlock. "It can affect your perception."

"Yeah, I get that. But I feel like I've just been traded," said John. "She didn't go ballistic."

"You said she wouldn't."

"Yes, but I didn't think she'd just say 'jolly good' and walk out," said John. "She's just walked out, wished us well and said she'd see us for the birth. What kind of rejected person does that?"

"Your wife, apparently," said Sherlock and set his arm round John's shoulder. "John, I realise this may all feel something of a shock-"

"She didn't even cry!"

"-but you do have to bear in mind that Mary may have other things on her mind."

"Like the baby," said John and shook his head. "My baby. Sherlock, I'm going to be in my daughter's life."

"Absolutely," said Sherlock. "Wouldn't have it any other way. But John, there is something else we may have to consider."

John scrubbed a hand back through his hair and looked back at Sherlock. "Access?"

"I don't think that's going to be an initial issue," said Sherlock and cleared his throat. "It's something she said, a while ago. I heard it and dismissed it and I really am sorry I didn't pick up on it."

"Hmm?" said John. "Worse than what she was?"

"Ah," said Sherlock and closed the door. "The day I returned, she was especially helpful in allowing me to speak to you."

"Yeah, she didn't stop me punching you in the face, I remember," said John. "What? You said a lot that night. Interrupted my proposal."

"You were doing fine," said Sherlock."Though in retrospect, perhaps I should have tried harder."

"Sherlock," said John, fingers flexed. "What?"

Sherlock nodded. "Mary mentioned that I'd require a confidante."

"You had Mycroft," said John. "And Molly. And let's not do this again."

"I'm not," said Sherlock and set his hands on John's shoulders. "John. I should have seen it."

"Seen what? I have no clue what you're getting at!"

"The confidante," said Sherlock and stared. "To fake my death."

"Sherlock," said John and cleared his throat. "I have just left my wife for you and although she doesn't seem all that devastated right now, I think it might kick in later. So will you please tell me what you're talking about before I do something I might actually regret."

"I needed someone to help me fake my death and if he's back," said Sherlock. "He needed someone."

"Moriarty?" said John and shook his head. "That? Now?"

"Yes, now," said Sherlock and sat down on the edge of his chair as he gestured to John's own. "He needed someone then, he'd have needed someone when he returned."

"He had a network."

"No," said Sherlock and smiled as he perched on his seat. "No, I took care of that. I made sure of it."

"So who's helping him?" asked John and frowned as Sherlock looked up. "Oh no. No, that's not an option. You can't think for one second-"

"That your assassin sort of ex, sort of wife could be working for Jim Moriarty as his confidante and part of the reason she's close to you is his plan? Yes, the thought had occurred."

"When?"

"In the past half an hour," said Sherlock and reached to pull John close. He kissed him, tongue grazing John's bottom lip as he drew back. "That's new, isn't it? That's good. Yes, I like that part of this."

"Sherlock," said John as he stared. "Are you serious about this?"

"Completely," said Sherlock and grinned. "Let's get to work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge, smoochy thank you to everyone who has offered encouragement and thoughts along the way. I really am enjoying writing this, though I miss the fluff very much. It does sneak in every now and again but not in this chapter.
> 
> I do like the possibilities of Mary, though I have stopped loving her, possibly because she really wasn't what I thought. It does offer some wonderful fic based possibilities though!
> 
> My thanks also go to the wonderful meta writers, who inspire such interesting thoughts, particularly loudest-subtext-in-television. Awesome stuff on tumblr. Go look!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following his split from Mary, John is still eagerly awaiting the birth of his daughter. On the night of one of their more taxing cases, John gets the call that Mary's in labour.
> 
> Possibly still in danger, possibly still linked to someone else who came back from the dead and possibly in love and not saying it, John has to adapt to fatherhood fast.
> 
> Oh and there's a touch of smut, to boot!

The baby was imminent, one more string in the ties between John Watson and the world.

John had never been particularly fond of hospital green, though the colours in the labour ward were a little more inviting. Paddington Bear and Winnie the Pooh decals littered the walls and John wondered which administration decided that childhood heroes were the most soothing thing to see when trying to push a whole person out of you. He didn't know if they were a distraction for any woman but it felt to John that Winnie's cheery grin mocked him. The warm yellow of his belly, swollen with honey and stuffing, had cheered him when he was small, but as an adult he'd long put Pooh bear aside, his eye on other heroes.

He ran a hand over his gritty eyes, the bags beneath them puffy and reddish where sleep felt like a memory. His clothes clung to his skin, cuffs grimy with dirt from last night's adventure and quick glance along the corridor showed prints he recognised as his own. An experimental sniff revealed the worst; John smelled bad. At least it left him sitting on the bench alone while the hospital staff flitted back and forth, purposeful and ignorant of his presence.

"Been here long?"

John looked up as the tea lady smiled at him, her trolley full of discarded cups. He offered a brief smile in return and shook his head. "Just arrived," he said. "Any chance I can grab a cuppa?"

"There's a café just round the corner," she said. "You here to see someone?"

"Yeah," he said. "My…I'm going to be a dad."

"That's nice," she said and he saw the smile but recognised it didn't reach her eyes. And while she was outwardly friendly, John was aware he was just a scruffy, smelly stranger in a part of the hospital where women and children were at their most vulnerable. She saw him as a threat and John would have laughed if he'd had the energy. John Watson, defender of the vulnerable, a threat in this micro-world. He raised a hand briefly and shook his head.

"Sorry," he said. "I've been working all night. I must look a state."

"You do look like you could do with a bit of freshening up," she said. "Is your missus in now?"

"She's being assessed," he said and when she raised an eyebrow, "Look, I know it's a long shot but is there anywhere I can get cleaned up? I don't want to go in there and contaminate anything."

"Well, nothing public," she said and then blinked as Sherlock walked up to them. "Mr Holmes?"

"Hello Madge," said Sherlock as he glanced at her badge. "Don't worry, I'll get this unkempt creature off your beat."

She nodded and walked away, the trolley trundling ahead of her as John stared up at him.

"How did you-?"

"Madge regularly works the early shift," said Sherlock and John frowned as he noticed the sharp lines of Sherlock's suit. His jaw was slightly pink where he'd recently shaved and his hair, tousled as always, seemed glossy and clean. They'd parted only an hour earlier when John had received the call. John had jumped into the nearest cab, leaving Sherlock to locate the missing key, vital to the case they'd been working. Apparently he'd done so quickly, leaving John to wonder whether Sherlock chose which things mattered enough to solve cases instantly.

"So you just come down to the maternity suite to fraternise with staff?" asked John and Sherlock smiled and lifted a neat bag.

"Best to check the facilities thoroughly," said Sherlock. "You never know who might be on duty."

"You've been coming down here to check out the staff?"

"Yes. Mycroft did offer files, but I do feel the personal touch is much more satisfying," said Sherlock and gestured. "You get to know all sorts of things."

"For instance?"

"There's a washroom along from here. I brought you something to change into."

John got to his feet, took the bag and glanced inside. "You've been choosing my clothes?"

"Oh yes," said Sherlock and gestured. "None of the staff will be using it at this time. We can scrape some of last night from you."

"Well if you hadn't insisted we try along the docks, I wouldn't have shown up like a tramp."

"It was necessary."

"It's always necessary with you," said John and pushed open the door of the bathroom. "Am I going to get in trouble for being in here?"

"Not if you're fast," said Sherlock and plucked a towel from the neatly folded pile. "Apparently we may still have hours. It's an inexact science, considering the data available, but there we are."

He leaned against the cool tile as John stripped down, his clothes almost standing up by themselves as he bared his skin to Sherlock's analytical eye. John had long since given up any pretence at modesty, years at school and later in the army had made him almost immune to casual curiosity, but there was nothing casual in Sherlock's interest in John's body. In the past month he'd felt something akin to worshipped, his physical flaws and beauty extolled by a voice that could melt chocolate.

John stood beneath the spray, hands scrubbing away the dirt and grime he was coated in. John opened one eye to check on Sherlock, missing the closeness they'd shared only the morning before, but Sherlock remained where he was, lounging easily against the wall, suit fastened immaculately as he watched John get clean. "So, did you find it?"

"Hmm?"

"The key?"

"Oh, that," said Sherlock and waved a hand. "Case closed. Besides, this is far more interesting."

"Watching me shower?"

"Always a pleasure, but actually no, I mean the safe delivery of the child."

John stepped out, dripping as the ineffectual towel slid over his skin. He mopped the wetness up quickly and tossed the towel into the laundry bag at the end of the row. He fished his clothes from the bag, amused that Sherlock had put together an approximation of John's most comfortable attire. Even the socks were his softest and John knew damn well this was a side of Sherlock he kept hidden in plain sight, a sense for order that remained affectionately shared between them.

"I haven't been in there yet."

"I should think not," said Sherlock. "However, I am reliably informed that everything is going to plan and Mary is in good spirits."

"Yeah, I bet she's great," said John and cleared his throat. "Anyone else around?"

"No one of interest."

"I meant-"

"I know who you meant," said Sherlock. "This isn't of interest to him."

"I thought everything was interesting," said John. "And this is a big thing. I mean, we've discussed this."

"At length," said Sherlock. "Moriarty will not be coming to the hospital. The petty changes in your life are not of interest to him."

"Petty?"

"Fatherhood," said Sherlock. "He isn't pitting himself against _you_."

"No," said John and pulled on his pants. "It's you, again. And if you think I'm letting that bastard anywhere near my daughter-"

Sherlock moved, quick on his feet as his arms settled on John's upper arms. He held John's gaze carefully as he kept a grip on bare flesh. "John, I will not allow your family to be at risk."

John smiled tightly and lifted a hand to Sherlock's jaw. "All my family?"

"Some of us can manage the danger."

"You can't manage to keep on top of the groceries. I think danger manages itself."

"Is that what you think?"

"It's what I know," said John and leaned up to kiss him. "And as much as I don't want your brother involved, a little security wouldn't go amiss right now."

"Mycroft will remain at a respectable distance," said Sherlock and shrugged. "But you must know that if he really wanted to, Moriarty would be here."

"Oh, right. Thanks, you're making me feel seriously reassured."

"He doesn't want to be here, I told you," said Sherlock. "What good would it do now?"

"Your eye would be off the ball," said John. "Focussed on this instead of on him."

"Reasonable, it does seem to happen more these days," said Sherlock. "And we're both aware who's really at risk."

John nodded and stepped back to dress. "Nothing's going to happen to her."

"During the birth-"

"No, _always_ ," said John. "Whatever else she is, she's the mother of my child."

Sherlock cleared his throat, then nodded. "As you say."

"I'm serious."

"I don't doubt you are," said Sherlock. "And I did make a promise."

"Yeah, you did. Don't you forget it," said John and tossed his dirty gear into the bag. "Okay, do I look respectable?"

"You look like you."

"Is that respectable?"

"Sometimes," said Sherlock and as John crossed to the door, Sherlock caught hold of his hand. "John," he said. "You are going to be an excellent father."

"I'm going to try."

"Excellent," insisted Sherlock and leaned forward, his lips caressing the bare patch beneath John's ear. He'd licked, kissed that spot before and John had teased him about the list of John's sensitive zones Sherlock had clearly compiled and referred to in bed. He was deliciously, hopelessly affectionate in private, a practical cat who sprawled into John's space whenever he felt the urge. They raced across the night together and John had been happy, in spite of the dangerous knowledge he now held. In the quiet of the bathroom, the groan he gave echoed round the walls and made John feel a very bad man for wanting to do something to alleviate the tension.

"Sherlock," he said as he leaned back against him. "How long until someone comes in here?"

"I can't suck you off _now_."

"Passion killer," said John and grinned. "I could do you."

"Not before we're caught," said Sherlock. "Don't you want to see Mary?"

"I don't know if she'll want to see me."

"She'll want to see you even less if she knows you've been doing something she can't."

"She definitely can't do you."

"Indeed," said Sherlock. "Nor you."

"No," said John and licked his bottom lip. "I think sex is the last thing she's thinking about right now."

"Really?" asked Sherlock. "Considering how she was put in this position, it might cross her mind."

"I really don't think so," said John and sighed. "I didn't think it would be like this."

"Having children?"

"One child," said John. "I didn't think I'd have any."

"Really?"

"Well, we're hardly a young couple," said John. "I thought it was unlikely."

"And you a medical man," said Sherlock. "You do know how it works?"

John grinned. "Yeah, I got that bit figured out, thanks. I just didn't think we'd have children."

"And yet you are," said Sherlock. "I didn't know if I would, either."

"Hmm?"

"Have children. The majority of whom seem to be coddled and dull, unappreciative replicas of their parents of little to interest to anyone with a functioning brain. And yet my mother, once logical to the core, is now parent to two of us."

"Sort of imagined you raised in a lab before I met her," said John and stroked a hand over Sherlock's neck. "Did Mycroft experiment on you? Run little tests?"

"Hardly," said Sherlock. "He needed more neutral subjects."

"You weren't all geared up to join in?"

"I had other things to do," said Sherlock. "And now there's this child."

"Hey, my kid isn't going to be part of any experiment."

"Of course not, John. I merely meant that fatherhood is not something I expected either."

John stared for a moment before he set his hand firmly on the back of Sherlock's neck and tugged him closer. The man's mouth was still open, ready to speak, to tell John something that likely was another promise that the baby would be well taken care of at Baker Street. They'd made adjustments to Sherlock's bedroom, a moses basket added to the decor and various baby oriented paraphernalia throughout their home. John had walked in two weeks previously, shocked at the maid service Sherlock had hired to make the flat more accommodating to an infant. Commitment was something John hadn't mentioned; they'd belonged to each other one gunshot at a time until life had become more intimate.

He hadn't thought that Sherlock had considered the change anything more than making adjustments for the baby to come. John had considered Sherlock generous for making any allowances and had taken for granted that his preparations were a mirror of the wedding, room made for something in their lives that he was dreading. He hadn't thought that Sherlock was keen to meet John's child, or that Sherlock had considered fatherhood to be something that would happen to both of them at once.

John closed the gap and kissed him, his tongue slippery against the pleasant taste of Sherlock's mouth. In the still of the bathroom, the distant dripping of some poorly maintained plumbing, John kissed Sherlock and claimed his lips, his tongue and teeth, reparations for his assumptions made while he could. He drew back reluctantly, aware that there wasn't time for everything he wanted to do and squeezed Sherlock's hand hard.

"So what name?" he said and Sherlock shrugged.

"I've drawn up a list."

"Yeah, Mary rejected most of those," said John. "I meant you."

"I already have a name."

"A great big one," said John. "Heck of a mouthful."

"Just my name?"

"Filth," grinned John and reached for the door before he looked back at Sherlock again. "No, I meant what's the baby going to call you?"

"Sherlock."

"That's different," said John. "What do you call your father?"

"Dad," said Sherlock. "That's what you'll use, yes?"

"I think so," said John. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I don't know," said John. "Missing the point, maybe? I thought you were doing all this to make it easier on me."

"Oh," said Sherlock and shrugged. "Well, perhaps a little. But this child _is_ important."

"Yeah, yeah, obviously. I just didn't know it was important to you. And I'm sorry I missed that."

Sherlock nodded as John opened the door. "I'd always hoped to be part of her life, but things have changed."

"Yeah, you could say that," grinned John and stepped out. "For the better. Okay, let's go find Mary."

"I know where she is. Follow me," said Sherlock and headed down the corridor, pausing only to acknowledge the midwife at the corner, favouring her with one of the smiles John liked the least. She fluttered slightly, the brief paperwork to allow them through into the delivery suites completed efficiently. John didn't trail after Sherlock, but he took in the noises from the other rooms, loud gasps before new life entered the world.

He'd expected to be here with Mary alone, Sherlock contacted afterward and a ridiculous number of balloons and flowers delivered by Mary's friends. He suspected the gifts would still be forthcoming, but they would be for Mary alone, which suited him completely. John hadn't quite taken on board Sherlock's once uttered, (but still unsubstantiated) insistence that she was associated with Moriarty, but he hadn't written the possibility off entirely. Mary remained the unknown, someone he had loved and lost, a woman who remained in his life and always would and John had yet to get used to it.

He recognised her voice from the corner and as Sherlock knocked on the door before entering, John braced himself as best he could. John heard authority in her tone and as the midwife opened the door, he took a quick breath and headed inside, smile presented to the world. Mary looked up at them both briefly over the top of the ball she rested on and turned back to her midwife. "Don't let them touch anything."

"Including you?"

"Especially me," said Mary and John knelt down on the soft tile and offered the smile again. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting," he said. "You look great."

She huffed her hair off her forehead and stared back at him. Her face was soaked with sweat, hair lank and her cheeks were puffed out with effort. Her eyes burned with effort and her fingers clung to the surface of the ball. "If I ever tell anyone that women have been doing this for hundreds of years, you can shoot me."

"I don't think we need to go to such drastic measures," said John and looked up at Sherlock. The man assessed the room quickly and sat down on the edge of the comfiest chair. "You could say a few words of encouragement."

"Mary, the most likely outcome is a healthy mother and baby, despite your age."

"I will punch him," said Mary as John smiled at her and managed to glare at Sherlock. "If he keeps saying things-"

"Do you want him to leave?"

"No," said Mary and leaned forward.

John itched to stroke the back of her neck, to soothe her, but things had changed since he was last in a position to offer her that kind of closeness and affection. Not just because he had moved back to Baker Street, or because he regularly shared a bed, (and a table and a shower) with Sherlock, but because John was husband but no longer lover. He dropped his hand back to his knee and deferred to the midwives as they encouraged Mary onward. John stepped back, his position in the room unclear to him. His heels nudged the walls and he stood, erect, relieved only when he felt Sherlock's hand on his wrist.

"It's going to be fine."

"Fine?"

"Everything," said Sherlock and got to his feet. He brushed imaginary lint from his collar and smoothed out his shirt carefully. "Do you fancy a coffee?"

"I can't leave Mary alone."

"She's not alone and she clearly doesn't need you."

"Cheers for that," said John and cleared his throat as Mary started to breathe a little more normally. "Do you need anything?"

"A lot of drugs," said Mary and took a quick breath. "Or you could do this."

"Really can't," said John with something of a grin. "I'd do it if I could."

"Liar," said Mary.

"Yes, on this occasion I agree with Mary," said Sherlock. "You wouldn't at all."

"I'm being nice."

"Stuff being nice," said Mary and reached for the edge of the bed. "Oh God, stuff all of it!"

John stepped forward but there didn't seem to be a place for him to stand. Mary had surrounded herself with staff who made her feel entirely secure and self sufficient. He was relegated to observer and when he glanced at Sherlock, the man appeared to be entirely in his comfort zone. Sherlock was always on the outside, looking in until he found a place to be useful and central to everything. Not for the first time, John envied him, but he felt the steady touch of Sherlock's long fingers against his bare wrist, his pulse elevated and his eyes focussed on the woman bringing his baby into the world.

He might have stood there for days, pressed against the wall as Mary dealt with the realities of birthing a child. John watched, waited, said little as she gasped and groaned and pushed out the daughter they'd been waiting for. His skin felt bruised where Sherlock held tight, neither of them able to say a word until the midwife called him over to see the baby.

"Now?"

"John, get over here," said Mary as she lay back against the pillows. "Meet your daughter."

"Right," said John and drew away from Sherlock briefly as he walked over, feet dragging across the floor. The baby was swaddled tight, her face visible above the cotton, eyes closed and downy blonde hair feathering her scalp. His expressions in miniature, delicately reflected in his daughter's features and John swallowed hard as he reached for her. "She's amazing," he managed and bent to kiss her forehead. "And a bit red."

"That's common," said Sherlock behind him and John turned as his best friend drew close. "She's mostly pink. Isn't that nice?"

"Yes," said John and held her close as he looked back at Mary. "Wow."

"I'm there with wow," she said and smiled, eyes a touch watery as she watched. "She looks like you."

"I know, poor thing," said John and grinned as he lifted the baby closer. He kissed her again and turned to Sherlock as the staff busied themselves round Mary. "Do you want to hold her?"

"What for?"

"What for?" John grinned. "Because she likes being held. Now hold your arms out."

Sherlock frowned and did as he was told. John passed the baby over, amused as Sherlock adjusted his grip, textbook perfect stance for holding a newborn. Sherlock smiled briefly and looked back at John suspiciously. "You can't know she likes this."

"All babies do," said John and grinned as his daughter let out a squeaky sound. "She seems to like you, too."

"That's not like, that's wind," said Sherlock and rocked her experimentally. "She's not bad."

"Thanks," said John and set his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "She's great."

"She might be," said Sherlock. "I assume you've already decided on a name."

"Mary has a few ideas," said John. "None of them Sherlock."

"Shame," said Sherlock and looked toward Mary. "What is she called?"

"I don't know. What's she look like?" asked Mary and patted down the sheets as she rested. "Don't say an alien."

"She doesn't look like an alien," said Sherlock and handed the baby back to John. He withdrew a slim sheet of paper and handed it over. "For your consideration."

"Is that a list of baby names?" asked John as Mary looked over it. "You didn't say."

"She wasn't here," said Sherlock and Mary pointed at the list.

"Thomas is not a girl's name," she said. "Nor is Joshua."

"You knew we were having a girl," said John and Sherlock shrugged.

"Outside possibility," he said and as baby Watson yawned, he gestured. "Give it some thought."

"Thanks," she said and closed her eyes briefly. "Actually, I'm really tired. Can you give me a bit?"

"Yeah, sure," said John and looked at the nearest midwife. "Is she going up to the ward?"

"In half an hour or so," she said. "Just want to keep an eye on them and let the doctor check your daughter over."

"Right," said John and handed his daughter over carefully as he stepped back. "We'll be nearby."

"Yeah, yeah," she said and John stepped back again, unable to quite look away from the baby he'd fathered until he was through the door. He ran a hand over his hair and grinned up at Sherlock. "You were right, as always."

"I was?" said Sherlock. "About what exactly?"

"They're fine," said John. "No problems. She's healthy and pink and gorgeous. And Mary's fine too."

"I said she would be," said Sherlock and gestured along the corridor. "Perfectly ordinary."

"She's not-"

"Normal," said Sherlock and leaned against the store cupboard door. "So you can relax now?"

"Hmm?"

"You're still tense."

"I have just had a baby, Sherlock."

"Technically Mary had it," said Sherlock and licked over his lip. "Of course, if you still need that tension relieving…"

John raised his eyebrows. "Are you suggesting sex now?"

"You're objecting?"

John shook his head. "No, not in the slightest. I'm just sort of wondering about where," he said. "It _is_ a hospital. We're not going to sneak back into the showers again."

"I wasn't going to go that far," said Sherlock and turned to the door, the lock quickly bypassed and the handle turned. He stepped inside and reached for John's hand, tugging him inside and into the darkness again. John groaned as Sherlock kissed him, tongue slippery and warm against his own. He revelled in Sherlock's fingers, quick and clever over his clothes and the tug of each button of his jeans was a tease to his erect cock.

John leaned against the door as Sherlock drew John's cock free of his underwear, fingering the rigid length easily as they kissed. The knot of tension in John's belly, apparent since he'd taken the phone call that beckoned him to the hospital, drew tighter, pressured by the heavy weight of his cock as he throbbed in Sherlock's fingers. The man had been able to undo John long before their relationship turned physical and John dropped his head back against the door as Sherlock sank to his knees.

The first suck, complete with tongue and a brief sensation of teeth, made John cover his mouth to stile the groan. He bucked his hips, sliding in deeper as Sherlock slid his hands round to tug John's buttocks and bring him closer still. John's balls drew up tighter, feeling liquid and heavy until John couldn't hold his breath any longer. He succumbed quickly and hard, gripping at the door and knocking the contents of the nearest shelf to the floor. Sherlock leaned back, letting John's cock slide from his mouth gently as he grinned.

"Better?"

"You," said John breathlessly, "are a genius."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Interesting timing on that. I didn't realise you thought oral sex required intelligence."

John giggled and drew Sherlock to his feet as he fastened his jeans. "Yeah, well, your timing is brilliant. I needed that."

"Evidently," said Sherlock. "And now we can grab that coffee."

"Sure," said John and kissed him quickly. "Grab a coffee. Go see Mary and Louise. Sounds good."

"Louise?"

"I liked your favourite pick," said John. "Besides, good solid name like Louise, she'll not go wrong."

"Unlike Sherlock."

"You're not wrong," grinned John as he bent to pick up the contents of the shelf. "Okay, let's grab that coffee."

They sneaked out onto the corridor to head up to the little café. The coffee was okay, little more than a hot drink for either of them and John rubbed a hand against his eyes as he rested his elbow on the table. "We'll see Mary's settled in and head home. I could use the sleep."

"I'm sure we can fit some of that in," said Sherlock and smiled. "Shall we?"

John nodded. They found the newly named baby in the room, close to sleep. The dresser was already littered with cards and balloons, the ubiquitous pink teddy bear looming close to the bed. John bent over the crib as she yawned, pressed her fist against her mouth and slept. "Mary must have nipped to the loo."

"Hmm," said Sherlock as he glanced at the cards. "Perhaps."

"She'll need plenty of sleep," said John. "While she can. Not that I'll be getting away with it either, when Louise stays with us."

"That may be more often than you imagine," murmured Sherlock. "Best contact Mrs Hudson and see how she feels about babysitting."

"What d'you mean," said John and stroked the soft fuzz of Louise's hair. "We've discussed it. We're going to share her."

"Yes," said Sherlock and plucked a card from the multitudes. "But she'd have to be here for that."

"Be here? Of course she'd be here," said John. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that Mary has already left," said Sherlock and flipped the edges of the card to examine the insides. "It seems she's feeling rather recovered."

"She's just had a baby," said John as he looked round desperately, trying to spot evidence of his wife. "She wouldn't leave Louise."

"Why not," said Sherlock. "Louise is safe and as you've pointed out, it was a rather safe and uncomplicated delivery."

"But she wouldn't run."

"She might," said Sherlock and displayed the insides of the card. "If properly inspired."

John stared at the card, taking in nothing but the elegant handwriting, the delicate curve and flow of the J and the M at its centre. He swallowed, tightened his smile and picked Louise up from her crib. "We said she'd be safe."

"If she stayed here, yes, but once she's gone freelance, she's on her own."

"Why would she do that," said John. "I don't understand."

"Think about it, John. She's safely delivered of the baby and Louise is in the safest hands either of us know. If she wanted to escape, it would never be with a baby. And while the security in this place is keen to keep unwanted visitors out, it doesn't check quite as rigorously for women who've appear to be in good health. It's her best chance to slip away unnoticed."

"And leave me with the baby."

"Yes," said Sherlock and cleared his throat loudly. "John, I admit I did consider this may be an outcome."

"Really?" said John as he rocked the baby tight. "You didn't think to mention it earlier."

"Lower your voice."

"I'll lower my bloody voice," said John and groaned as Louise woke up and gave a fretful cry. "Oh great. Just great. I don't know what to do."

"It's all right," said Sherlock and leaned at the door to wave at the nearest midwife. "We'll take care of this."

"I can't even change a nappy."

"You'll learn," said Sherlock. "There are some excellent videos out there."

"I'm not watching bloody Youtube!"

"It'll be fine," said Sherlock and leaned forward to press his lips against John's temple, his fingertips brushing the baby's forehead. "You'll do really well."

"I didn't think I'd have to do it alone!"

John looked up as Sherlock raised his eyebrows. The panic was real, the baby was very real and John was very much aware that medical knowledge could only go so far with care of an infant. He licked his bottom lip and was surprised as Sherlock kissed him quickly, a brief reminder that his recent choices hadn't merely rid him a wife, but gained him the brightest light in the London sky. He smiled, teeth pressed behind his lips. "I'm not alone, am I."

"No," said Sherlock and stepped back to open the door for the midwife and ensuing paperwork. "We'll manage, John. We'll take care of this."

John nodded, but he held Louise tight, his eyes drawn back to the card Sherlock had shown him. He was out there somewhere, watching, waiting and Mary was the first casualty in this renewed war. He kissed his daughter's head and watched Sherlock as the man explained the circumstances, hoping like mad that Sherlock had a plan and that for once, John would be in on it from the start.

In short, John Watson hoped for a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. You've been so delightfully patient but I couldn't get to this last week - the perils of appearing in pantomime!
> 
> Parentlock isn't a passion of mine, but of the outcomes for Mary and the baby, this made the most sense to me.
> 
> Hope you enjoy - all comments and criticism welcome. xxx


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't finding fatherhood easy, much to his annoyance. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems to be more than capable of dealing with the new baby and it's been a long time since either of them have done more than collapse in bed.
> 
> There must be smut. There may be a touch of plot.
> 
> There is a plan!

John hadn't slept in two days, hadn't showered in three and couldn't remember the exact taste of Sherlock's skin.

He'd been to bed, laid there for hours not sleeping, sensitive to the sounds of a baby snuffling, a baby waking, dreading the moment when he would have to leave the soft comfort of the mattress and be responsible for someone other than Sherlock. To his shame, fatherhood did not come easily to him and he was both disappointed and frustrated, given that Sherlock appeared to adapt quickly, incorporating Louise into his life with irritating ease. John watched as Sherlock effortlessly typed on his laptop with one hand, the other supporting both baby and bottle as he solved crosswords and cases alike.

John thought it was hideously unfair that a man ill-equipped to deal with the world on a general basis had beaten him outright at the one thing John was sure was a Watson remit. He'd been looking after others since his school days, had actually saved lives and enjoyed the comfort of mattering in the split second decisions he'd made. Those times had made him feel competent in the care of other people, but the baby they'd brought home from the hospital needed constant, almost mind numbing care, routine that actually nagged at John and made him wonder whether he'd ever get to grips with it.

They had been out, had chased across London twice in the past month. John had felt more alive in the moments where he ran, had smiled brightly at his own exhaustion and looked to Sherlock, ready to carry off some great adventure. They'd collapsed in an affectionate heap in the back of a large warehouse, resting against boxes that didn't contain the spare parts advertised. Sherlock had dropped his head back the cardboard, long neck exposed and his mouth open. John thought he was beautiful in that moment, painted by shadows and the swinging bulb above them. He'd leaned over, horny and eager as he kissed the bare expanse of skin before Sherlock turned, smiled and suggested they went home.

John had eagerly agreed until he realised home wasn't just the two of them. There would be no desperate tumble into bed, no shared tub with his knees tucked under his chin. Sherlock strode from the taxi and paused at Mrs Hudson's to collect their daughter, Louise neatly interrupting what John felt he needed. And though he tucked her in to sleep, kissed her forehead and was certain he loved her and would die for her, John found living with his daughter harder than he'd anticipated and fought almost hourly to bite down on the resentment that threatened.

Perhaps Mary's revenge was more subtle than he'd expected. They'd heard nothing from her and when John had asked Sherlock if his brother would be useful, Sherlock confirmed Mycroft that had inquired, but Mary did not want to be found. She'd vanished successfully, a mere memory of a woman he'd never known and John mourned that passing as well as he could, all the while missing the comfort of the man he'd chosen, mindful that his daughter deserved better.

He rubbed both his hands over his face as he sat on the edge of his chair in the living room, the scent of his skin strong and unpleasant. John grabbed the paper and checked the date, unsure if it was new or if Sherlock had suddenly developed a tendency to tidy after himself. He flipped through to the fifth page and blinked at the circled articles, one story detailing possibly linked disappearances in Lewisham, the other an interview with an elderly widow in Wandsworth. John couldn't see a link, Moriarty's signature unclear.

"There's plenty of hot water."

"Yes, I know. I pay the bills."

"And soap. Plenty of that too."

John glanced up as Sherlock sat down opposite, dressing gown and pyjamas straight from the laundry, his skin gleaming and jaw shaved clean. John took malicious pleasure in spotting the damp patch on his left shoulder, baby drool that knocked the perfect appearance opposite.

"I know about the soap," said John. "I buy that too."

"Then use it."

"You use it," said John and sank back in the chair. "I'm fine."

"That's plainly not true," said Sherlock and sat forward, his hand outstretched to touch John's knee. "You could take a long bath."

"I could take a shower," said John. "But we're not going anywhere, so why bother?"

"Because you should," said Sherlock. "John, you're not fine and you're not yourself. I know new parents can be sleep deprived, but there's really no need. Louise is doing very well. Take a bath. Get some sleep."

"Get stuffed," said John and took a long breath as he met Sherlock's gaze. The man didn't even have bags under his eyes and John took the opportunity to sulk over being left behind again. He didn't care if he was being selfish. It wasn't fair that he'd finally come to the realisation that Sherlock was the one, only to lose him to the attractions of parenthood that John couldn't understand at all. "I said I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not!" John blinked as Sherlock recoiled slightly from the noise. He listened for sounds of the baby and when there were none, took a moment to breathe out. "Sorry about that. Shouldn't have, um, said it like that. No, you're right. I could do with sorting out. I'll take a shower, it's fine."

He got to his feet slowly and staggered slightly as he walked toward the bathroom. He could see the outside of the cot through the open doorway and hesitated, aware he should walk in and check on his daughter. John lingered, fingers briefly outstretched before he turned to the bathroom instead and closed the door firmly behind him.

The tub filled quickly, the bath salts sinking in the water where John had tipped them in. He sat on the side, feet dangling in the bath as he waited to slide inside. His head hurt, his back ached and John stared at the smooth tile opposite before he sank into the water. He lay back and closed his eyes, willing his body to relax in the soothing heat of the bath, to catch up on the sleep he was sorely missing. His feet pushed hard against the end of the tub and John flexed his knuckle against the side.

He was dimly aware the door had opened, but until he felt the brush of long fingertips on his side, John didn't register Sherlock at all. John blinked and turned toward him, his hand stilling the rub of fingers over his belly. "I'm relaxing," he said and Sherlock grinned. "Yeah, well, worth a shot."

"You're an appalling liar," said Sherlock as he knelt next to the tub. "And apparently into punishment on a level I didn't credit you with."

"I'm not punishing myself," said John. "You know I struggle sleeping."

"Yes, but you usually try to sleep before you declare it impossible," said Sherlock. "John-"

"God, don't try and deduce me now."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Sherlock. "Besides, even you could do this one."

"What? Man becomes husband and father and fails at both? Yeah, even I can get pick that one out."

"Failed?"

"That's the general consensus, yes," said John and let go of Sherlock's fingers. "Look, I'm tired, I'm not in the best of moods and I'm trying to do what you said."

Sherlock stared. "You think you've failed?"

"I think your lying wife running away the day you have a baby counts as a failure."

"I don't think you can strictly count Mary as your failure."

"I didn't spot her."

"Neither did I," said Sherlock. "And I'll admit it was a slight miss on my part, but you must admit she did have several redeeming qualities."

"Can't remember any of them right now," said John and sat up, the water sloshing over the edge of the tub and damping the bottoms of Sherlock's pyjamas. He glanced at the opaque door and lowered his voice. "I can't do the parent thing."

"You've had barely six weeks. She'll be with us for eighteen years at the very least. I don't think you can write yourself off yet."

"Because I'm doing so well?" asked John. "Sherlock, I can't even get her to sleep. She just screams until you come along."

"I've seen her asleep with you."

"Well it must have been when we were both exhausted," said John. "Because I can't do it, Sherlock. I can't make her smile. I can't stop her crying and there are days when I don't think I can be near her at all because I'm useless at it."

He gritted his teeth as he looked at Sherlock, aware that the man's assurance remained silent. John sighed and leaned forward, needing the kiss that was on offer. It was brief, perfunctory and hardly the act of a man who'd recently discovered his sex drive and indulged regularly. John, naked and exhausted, wanted to feel adored and desired and wasn't sure he was anywhere close to that.

Sherlock frowned as John leaned back in the tub. "If you're fishing for compliments-"

John laughed. "Not even close."

"I was going to say that the scruffy beard suits you," said Sherlock. "I'll get your razor, though."

"Not right now," said John and slipped deeper into the bath before he addressed Sherlock again. "How can you do it?"

"Do what?"

"With her," said John. "It just doesn't bother you, that it's all so demanding. I mean, I would have thought a man who has a sock index would be a bit more bothered by a baby."

Sherlock rested his chin against his forearm as he swirled absently at the water. "It's really not that difficult."

"No, it _is_ difficult," said John. "People all over the world find it difficult. Sleepless nights-"

"I rarely sleep."

"And someone needing you all the time."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I already have that."

John stared at him before he groaned. "Oh. Thanks."

"You do need me."

"You were away for two years!"

"Yes, but now, you need me," said Sherlock. "As I need you."

John groaned and slipped back into the warm water. "Oh God, romance in the bathroom. This isn't what I expect from Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, I don't know what you do expect. Isn't this what couples do?"

"I don't care what they do."

"You do. You got married."

"And I left my wife for you," said John and lowered his voice. "Because we're not like other couples. We're just us."

"I believe we may have some things in common with other people, though I swear I've worked hard to eliminate the less interesting ones."

"Well, we're acting like we're married," said John. "We're not sleeping together."

"What are you talking about? We sleep together every night. You have a side. I've even stopped sprawling to accommodate you."

"Sex," said John firmly. "We brought her home and there's no sex anymore. I suppose you could say that's exactly like other couples."

He huffed as Sherlock opened his mouth to say something that would no doubt be another kick to John's ego. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"I know. Don't. How about you let me have a bath in peace and I'll do what you said. I'll get some sleep, maybe end up not being as grumpy and I guess I'll get used to this."

Sherlock nodded and licked over his bottom lip before he leaned in and kissed John hard. He slid his hand to John's jaw, thumb rubbing over the stubbly skin as he delivered a savage kiss that bruised John's lip and left him dizzy as Sherlock drew back.

"You're tired," said Sherlock. "You've been tired for weeks and I haven't wanted to push you into anything. You didn't seem interested in doing anything other than solving crimes and attempting to form some kind of bond with your daughter, which you have been torturing yourself with. You've barely looked at me, barely registered that I'm in this apartment beyond noticing that Louise is taken care of." He rubbed his thumb firmly over John's jawline. "Don't ever assume I want anything other than John Watson in my present or in my future."

Sherlock got to his feet and whirled round, dressing gown flaring up behind him as he stormed out of the bathroom, leaving John open mouthed, aroused and mostly submerged.

He washed himself down quickly and rid himself of the scruff on his chin. It took him barely fifteen minutes to clean himself thoroughly and as he wrapped the towel round his middle, John caught sight of his reflection and frowned. Early middle age had been reasonably kind and he had no business behaving childishly. The bedroom was empty when he settled on the bed and closed his eyes, though he tried to yawn quietly.

It felt like seconds had passed when he woke up, but the window was dark and he could hear Sherlock talking in the living room. He scrubbed a hand back through his hair as he identified Mrs Hudson and got to his feet cautiously. John stretched, feeling more rested than he had been for days and he pushed open the door, determined to face the world and do a little more than act like an idiot to his family.

Sherlock paced idly in the front room, the baby held close as Mrs Hudson perched in John's chair and read from the list.

"I've had her before," she said as she looked up at them both. "We're fine together. And it's just a night. She likes it downstairs."

"I'd rather err on the side of caution," said Sherlock. "Her routine is necessary, especially now that she's taking an interest in the world."

"Sherlock," she said and smiled. "We'll be fine. You boys have a nice evening together."

"That is the intention," he said and looked up as John walked through. "Ah, you're awake just in time to say goodbye to Louise. Mrs Hudson's agreed to look after her tonight."

John smiled absently and walked over, arms out to take hold of the neatly dressed baby he'd fathered. She cooed as Sherlock passed her over, awake and watching, eyes taking in as much as she could. John couldn't swear it was because he'd had some sleep, or because he was making an active effort, but she remained calm in his arms, hands waving where she could grab, little fingers caught in the folds of John's dressing gown. He smiled, relieved and the floating sensation that he could do this seemed almost within his grasp.

"She'll be fine, love," said Mrs Hudson and he looked up, watching her as she clutched Sherlock's instructions. "And you could do with a break."

"I'm okay," said John. "I don't need a break."

"You do," said Sherlock. "I can't have wild monkey sex with you while the baby's in the room."

John cleared his throat as Mrs Hudson twittered. "Yes, well," he began. "Perhaps one night wouldn't be so bad."

"And you could take her to the park tomorrow," said Mrs Hudson as she reached for the baby. "If you can walk."

John stared as she walked out of the apartment and headed downstairs. Sherlock followed her to carry the travel cot and Louise's other belongings, leaving John open mouthed in the front room. By the time Sherlock returned, John had just about gathered his senses. "Monkey sex?"

"I believe you've referred to it that way on a few occasions."

"Yes, but I didn't believe we'd be sharing that with our landlady."

"Is that a complaint?" asked Sherlock. "I thought you'd enjoy an evening alone. You certainly indicated sex would be a welcome return."

"Yeah," said John and grinned as he scrubbed his hand through his rumpled hair. "I didn't think we'd be making an announcement."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Does it bother you that other people know we're having sex."

"I think sharing a schedule's a bit much," said John as Sherlock stepped closer. "And I'm not sure I'm ready…I'm not sure I'm ever going to be ready to say all that to Mrs H."

"I shall bear that in mind," said Sherlock and reached for John's hand. "Shall we begin?"

"God yes," said John and cleared his throat when Sherlock bent close to kiss him. "I've been an arse."

"Interesting seduction technique," said Sherlock. "You don't always open this way."

"I don't always behave like such a dick," said John and settled his hands on Sherlock's waist, beneath the dressing gown. "Usually it's you."

"I do have that reputation."

"It's well deserved."

"Thank you."

John grinned. "But not recently. And I'll admit, I'm a little bit…no, I'm a _lot_ jealous of the way you are with her. It's like it's easy for you and I don't know why it isn't for me. I've had longer to prepare and I thought I'd be fine, but I'm not." He shrugged. "I'm pretty rubbish at it."

"You think it's easy for me?"

"You said it wasn't difficult."

"It isn't," said Sherlock. "But it _isn't_ easy."

John shook his head. "You're going to have to run that one past me again."

"It isn't easy," said Sherlock. "I have the books, the information and I can apply it, but it's distracting and I do have other affairs to take care of. There are people out there who wish us harm and I'm not looking for them. And I must _look_ , John. I _have_ to look. You know who's out there, you know what he can do and what he's prepared to do. I have to be prepared to dance with the devil, I always have, but it seems I can't find the balance, John!"

John stared at him. "You think he'll come here."

"I know he'll come here," said Sherlock. "He'll walk through the door and I'll have to be ready and I'm not. I might be up to my ears in taking care of an infant, but I don't know how to prepare for this and…" Sherlock paused, cleared his throat and looked back at John. "I can't do this alone."

John pushed his tongue against his lip. "Mycroft?"

"Mycroft doesn't have what I require," said Sherlock and huffed. "Oh, come on, John. You know damn well what I'm saying."

"Me," said John and nodded slowly. "I don't know what to do about Him. I mean, I want to help but I just don't know what I can do to help."

"You're usually there," said Sherlock. "But you haven't been and I can be a father, I can be a lover and I could bring down Jim Moriarty in a heartbeat, but I can't do all those things well. Splitting myself in pieces puts us all at risk and that is completely unacceptable."

John nodded and leaned up to kiss Sherlock squarely on the mouth. His tongue brushed against Sherlock's lower lip and he sucked slowly before he drew back.

"I've really not helped at all, have I?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Yeah," said John and kissed him again. "I'm going to do something about that."

"Be my guest," said Sherlock and stroked John's shoulders gently. "This isn't feeling monkey-like."

"I think this might be something else," said John and pushed Sherlock back in his chair. His fingers were quick, pushing at Sherlock's clothes until the dressing gown was off, his t-shirt was up and Sherlock's pyjamas were tugged down far enough to expose the stiffening length of his penis.

John licked his lip as he stroked his fingertips over the warm skin of Sherlock's belly. He could feel the muscles quiver beneath his palm, the brush of silky foreskin against the back of John's hand and as he took him in hand, John kissed Sherlock again, his tongue slick in his mouth, warm and eager as his fingers worked over sensitive flesh. John could feel the puff of breath against his jaw as he drew back, hand sliding free of Sherlock's cock as he caught his breath.

"I get what you need," said John. "I do and I'm going to make sure you can focus, because bringing him down's what we all need, but right now? I need this right now." He stroked his hand over Sherlock's forehead and leaned in to snag a quick kiss. "I need _you_ right now."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, I'm not ruling out sex."

"That's good," said John and grinned as he tugged at Sherlock to bring him to the floor, the rug rumpling beneath his feet. He wrestled his dressing gown and t-shirt off so he could feel the surface of Sherlock's chest against his own, his cock caught in the elastic of his bottoms. John wriggled as Sherlock stripped him down, a long tangle of cotton and other crumpled fabric at his feet as the rug threatened to graze his knees.

"We do have a perfectly serviceable bed just through there."

"Can't wait," murmured John and moved, his mouth brushing Sherlock's skin as he scrambled for everything he needed. The little bottle of lubricant retrieved from his dressing gown as he puddled it in his palm. Sherlock shifted beneath him, rounded ass pressed against John's hand as John stroked, fingers outstretched, slick and warm as he rendered delicate flesh slippery. John groaned as he gained purchase, fingers slipping inside, the tight muscle relaxing only slightly. He shifted on the rug, knees pushing Sherlock's own wider, his hips raised from the floor as John slid his fingers in and back, slow and steady as his own cock rose, pressed against his belly. He could feel Sherlock clenching and unclenching the cheeks of his buttocks, his cock neglected where John had let go.

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder as he rose to his knees. "Are you ever going to do this?"

"Doing it," said John and groped for the bottle. He slicked his fingers up and stroked along the heavy length of his cock. "Don't rush me."

"God forbid you hurry a good fuck."

John grinned and pressed his cock against the puckered entrance. "It's not me on the receiving end and things are…delicate. So shut up, just for a minute, let me do this in my own time."

Sherlock arched his back and pressed up against John's cock. "I won't break."

"Yes, I know. Because _I_ don't rush."

"You're stalling."

"Not," huffed John and pushed forward. He caught his breath as he felt the slippery skin give way, the head of his cock enclosed by Sherlock's body. He heard Sherlock pant beneath him, watched the line of his shoulders dip down, followed by the more insistent push of his arse against John again.

"More," said Sherlock, the depth of his voice muffled by the back of his hand. "All of you."

"Getting there," said John and spread his knees wider. He braced carefully, feeling the skin slide over him, Sherlock's body enveloping his own. He slid one hand around Sherlock's hip and pulled cautiously, feeling the roll and ease of the movement that made Sherlock groan loudly. An experimental rock of his hips caused a repetition of the sound and John breathed out slowly and reached round to massage Sherlock's slightly softened cock.

"I think we can do this."

"Obviously," murmured Sherlock and turned his head, jaw visible against his hand. "Don't let me distract you."

"You _are_ the distraction," said John and rocked slowly, revelling in the push and pull of flesh. He felt cocooned by inviting skin, the body beneath him moving in tandem, Sherlock's cock swelling in his fingers, stiff and wet to the touch. Everywhere felt slick and sticky, sweat and oil on their flesh as he moved, rocking Sherlock to John's rhythm. He moved easily, bringing them together for the sole purpose of pleasure, to feel the edge and surge past it and as John felt the tightening in his balls, he moved quicker. His hand slid easily over Sherlock's cock, the tip slick and wet, each thrust of John's hips driving it along his palm.

John groaned loudly as he grew closer, his eyes tight shut as he concentrated. The cock in his fingers stiffened, swelled and his fingers and the back of his palm grew slicker with Sherlock's spend and still John moved. Sherlock shivered beneath him as John bucked in, hips flat to the curve of Sherlock's backside until John couldn't hold back. He grasped Sherlock's hips in his fingers, bruising soft flesh as he spilled. John could feel his cock twitch as he fell forward, his lips wet against Sherlock's shoulder.

"I don't think monkey's do that," said Sherlock. "In fact the documentary we watched suggested they trade sex for food."

"Shut up," murmured John and kissed the freckle beneath his lips. "It's just a saying."

"I could get you food."

"No."

"Ice cream. Bacon sandwiches. Though perhaps not together."

John giggled and drew back carefully, his t-shirt quickly employed in the act of clean up before he dropped down to the rug. Sherlock lounged beside him, every inch a cat in the moment, his tongue touched to his lower lip. "Sex will remain on the menu."

"Good," said John and reached out to push curls back from his forehead. "Clears my head, how about yours?"

"Focused," said Sherlock and tugged a cushion down from the chair. "John, he _will_ come here."

"Really? You think the best time to talk about him is now?"

"As I said, focused," said Sherlock. "And we need to prepare."

John tried a smile. "I thought we were having a wild night."

"I think this is reasonably wild, considering," said Sherlock. "It's still early."

"Yes, but I will need to sleep," said John. "And so will you, so don't give me that."

"Sleep, yes," said Sherlock and settled back on the floor. "But it's a long night."

"That's the plan."

John leaned in to kiss him, pausing only when the phone vibrated in Sherlock's pocket. He reached for the dressing gown and slid the slim device to the floor. The number was unfamiliar but the implications were clear enough. John frowned as Sherlock unlocked it and opened the text.

"It's him," he said quietly as Sherlock sat up. "The man's got some timing."

"The man has intelligence," said Sherlock mildly as he read the lines. "And we should have swept this place for cameras."

"What?" John sat up and grabbed the nearest cushion. "He's spying on us?"

"It's what villains do," said Sherlock. "And the government. Do try to keep up."

"Mycroft's got surveillance here?"

"I don't doubt it," said Sherlock and reached for his dressing gown. "We're going to have a visitor."

"Now?" asked John.

"Ten minutes," said Sherlock and flipped the screen. "He's being considerate."

"Who is?" asked John and stared. "He's coming here? Now?"

"Now," said Sherlock. "I suggest you get dressed."

"Right," said John and licked his lip. "Oh God, Mrs Hudson, Louise-"

"Will be entirely unaffected," said Sherlock. "This is between us. He's well aware that collateral damage in this case is highly inappropriate." He wrinkled his nose. "It'd be rude."

"Sherlock," said John as the man grabbed his clothes and walked to the bedroom. "He blew up a building to get your attention."

"Well, he already has it," said Sherlock and tossed clean jeans toward John. "Do get dressed, John. I've no idea how grainy any footage is, but would prefer to keep your flesh between us."

John scrambled to the bedroom and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders. "Here, though? Couldn't we go somewhere more neutral?"

Sherlock smirked and leaned in to kiss him. "And give up our advantage, John? Never. Now dress."

John yanked his clothes on, one eye on the time as Sherlock checked the lines of his suit carefully. His hair arranged into ruffled curls, John thought the man practically shone, something he wasn't at all comfortable with. And as Sherlock made tea in the best crockery, John slipped the gun into his pocket and headed back through to the lounge. He sat in the chair and faced the door, prepared to do anything to keep his family safe and though he expected the door to open, the man who walked through was not the delicate featured shark he was expecting.

He glanced at Sherlock, taking in the slightly raised eyebrow and the faint clench on the arm of his chair. But he smiled and gestured lightly to the wooden chair between them.

"Mycroft," he said as his brother walked over and perched imperiously on the cushioned wood. "Not the client I was expecting."

"No," said Mycroft and glanced at John. "It appears I have a little problem I need dealt with."

"Don't you have people for that?" asked John.

"Yes, he does," said Sherlock. "It's why he's here. A little Moriarty problem he can't entrust to the boys and girls back home."

"I thought Moriarty was coming," said John. "I thought he'd be walking in."

"Next best thing," said Sherlock and looked back at his brother. "How bad is it, brother dear?"

Mycroft cleared his throat and set the umbrella next to the chair. "I'm _here_. How bad do you need it to be?"

And as Sherlock grinned, John flexed his fingers against the gun in his pocket. Mycroft glanced at him and sat straighter. "James Moriarty has been in touch. He doesn't want anything. He doesn't even _have_ anything. Just a friendly reminder that he's still out there."

"And?" said John. "We knew that."

Mycroft smiled. "He's coming in," he said. "Just for a short visit and he's asked that you be there to receive him."

"Fine, I'll do it," said Sherlock and Mycroft shook his head. "No? Then why are you here?"

"Not you," said Sherlock and looked at John. "He's asked for his own personal doctor. So tell me, Doctor Watson, are you ready for a little socialising?"

John straightened in his chair and looked to Sherlock, his jaw clenched and his fingers dropping from the gun. "No time like the present," he said quietly. "What do I need to do?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty has asked for John to meet with him. Having been briefed by Mycroft, John attempts to get something out of the encounter, even if he hasn't got the tools to do it.
> 
> He has to try. He has Sherlock and the rest of his family to protect.
> 
> (with added smut, because I like pretty naked men)

Mycroft was adept at warnings and of little comfort.

John's t-shirt clung to his skin and he could feel the faint sweat beneath his arms dampen the cotton. He'd expected something a little less informal, an office reminiscent of the better episodes of 24, but Mycroft had hurried him along the corridors of a building he didn't recognise and into a cosy little room with lace at the window. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through, painting lines of light across the tablecloth and John trailed his fingertips along the back of the chairs before he sat, his back to the window and his eyes on the door.

Sherlock had protested, naturally. John listened quietly as Sherlock insisted it was a game, that Moriarty had only requested John because he was toying with all of them, instead of getting down to business. They all knew John was the weak point, the Achille's heel in Sherlock's armour and that it might be wiser to take him out of the equation. But Moriarty had asked for him and John braced himself to go, his agreement with Mycroft to keep Sherlock away and safe while John bore the brunt of it.

The little room seemed close, the air tight and John settled in the chair, his back straight, his arms as relaxed as he could make them, as he waited for the only other man who made Mycroft uncomfortable. When the door finally opened, it felt something of an anticlimax to look up at a man whose demeanour was gentle, his physique slight and his face dominated by velvet eyes more appropriate to Bambi.

"Hello John."

John lifted his chin slightly and held a hand out as Moriarty stepped into the room. He gestured to the chair opposite. "Take a seat."

Moriarty twitched a quick smile before complied. His clothes were clean but simple, the expensive suits of yesterday merely a memory, but he was neat and the cotton of his t-shirt was smooth across his chest. His hair looked amiably rumpled, as though someone had affectionately ruffled their fingers through for encouragement before sending him in. Such thoughts led back to Sherlock, long digits buried against his scalp as he sulked at a case, only moving when John dropped featherlike kisses on the back of his neck. John could recall the exact texture of Sherlock's neck, the soft skin and the shiny curls that pressed against his nose at the point of contact. Just a moment in time that he repeated as many times as he could. He wanted to get up, walk out and have more of them.

But first, this.

"How are you feeling?"

Moriarty smiled broadly, top and bottom teeth on display as he leaned forward. His elbows rested against his knees and his stockinged toes curled against the pile of the carpet. "Wow. You've got a nice bedside manner, John."

"Yeah, I've been told that. How are you feeling?"

"Good," said Moriarty. "Really good. You?"

"You're looking well for a dead man," said John. "They buried you. I checked."

Moriarty shrugged. "They buried _someone_. I wonder who that was. What about you, John? Who do you think it was?"

"No idea," said John. "Until recently I thought it was you and then I didn't think about you anymore."

"Ouch."

"And now you're back. So if you're feeling okay, why do you need to see a doctor?"

"Any doctor? Is that what they told you?"

"They told me you wanted to see me," said John. "You asked for _me_. So here I am."

"Here you are," said Moriarty. "Nice to know you'll run for any madman who calls."

"Just the ones who fake their deaths," said John and kept his hands firmly on his knees, his back straight. "Why did you ask for me?"

"Was Sherlock hurt," said Moriarty as he lounged back. "Because I thought he would be, you know? I thought maybe he missed me. I mean we were _very_ close, John. Just the two of us playing who can die better. And I admit, his death was very good, but they _buried_ me, John. They buried a body and here I am, just as gorgeous as ever."

"I liked you better dead," said John.

"That's not very nice."

"I'm not nice," said John and cleared his throat. "Why did you ask for me?"

"Because you'd come," said Moriarty. "I knew you'd waltz in here, all handsome doctor, oh so desperate to protect that lanky lover of yours."

"I'm not desperate."

"No," said Moriarty and stretched an arm out, his hand hovering above John's own. "How is Sherlock? You didn't say."

"No, I didn't," said John. "What do you want from me?"

"Is he a good snog?"

"What?"

"Sherlock," said Moriarty and sat back, fingers wriggled as he appeared to check his cuticles. "I thought he should be, with those lips of his, but you can never tell. There might be a teeth issue. He looks like he likes biting a bit, maybe because he can't help it. And that would be awful, because there he is, almost mister sex and a clumsy kisser. He'd be embarrassed at being bad at something. So is he?"

"You've given it some thought."

"Not much," said Moriarty. "Passing thought. And since you're sleeping with him, I thought you might have an answer."

"Yeah, I'm not sharing. And if you've got nothing to say, I'm fine leaving now."

"Oh right, to get back home and feed the baby. Lots of things changed, didn't they, John. Since I left you've been a very busy boy. Marriage and children and now Sherlock again. Always Sherlock. Does he come first, John? More than your precious baby girl?"

"Family comes first," said John. "It does for everyone."

"Oh, but you're not everyone," said Moriarty. "I got that wrong before. A little slip on my part, I'll admit but you can't expect me to know everything. I thought you were ordinary, just background on the Holmes boys, a little bit of collateral I could work with, but you have depths."

"Nope, I'm completely shallow," said John. "I just want to work, go home every night to my family and for you to go back to being dead."

"Well, that's just not nice."

"Whoever said I was nice was lying," said John and felt the tendons in his right hand tighten. He fought it, his fingers pressing in against the denim of his jeans as he watched Moriarty sit up again. "I'm not nice."

"Mary thought you were," said Moriarty and reached out for the water jug on the table between them. He tipped the jug, water splashing neatly into both glasses and John ignored the offered drink, hand almost cramped as he insisted he would not ask.

Moriarty glanced up, his tongue flicked out briefly to lick away the beads of water on his lip. "She thought you were such a very nice man, so she could be a very nice woman. Of course, we both know how that worked out. What's the scar like? I couldn't see it clearly, but she's a good shot."

"How do you know," said John, teeth gritted in spite of himself, "that she's good?"

"Would it bother you if she'd worked for me?"

"No."

"Good," said Moriarty. "Although I imagine it might hurt a teensy bit if you knew I'd sent her in to seduce you."

"You," began John and slowed, swallowed and sat straighter in his chair. "No. Mary loved me."

"Hmm, yes, she did," said Moriarty and grinned briefly. "You ever see a toddler with a teddy bear, John? They love them and squeeze them and chew them and leave them in mud puddles because they don't know any better."

"I'm not a bear."

"No, you're not, John. You're Sherlock's. I don't think she liked that very much, did she? Not much for sharing. I wonder if that's why she really shot him."

John pushed his tongue against his cheek and breathed out slowly. "You don't really know her."

"Why? Because I think maybe your wife was a bit jealous?" Moriarty sipped his water and nodded to John. "You are sleeping with him, after all."

"Jealous," said John and for a second, barely long enough for anyone to register, John saw a flicker at the corner of Moriarty's eyes. "You're not his type."

"God, we're not going to fight about Sherlock, are we? Surely you're not reducing us to that?"

John ignored the giggle. "I don't think your Sherlock's anything," he said.

"Oh, but I _am_ , John. I'm the big reason your boyfriend's not rotting in some ditch in Belarus. You should be falling on your knees and thanking me." Moriarty drew his fingertip round the edge of the glass. "Mycroft is."

John blinked. "Thanking you isn't high on my priorities."

"Shame," said Moriarty. "You distract him, you know."

"From you?"

"From everything," said Moriarty. "He changes nappies now. All that potential and you've got him domesticated, begging for scraps until you take your underpants off."

John ran his tongue against the back of his teeth and kept his gaze steady.

"Sherlock got rid of everyone you know."

"Everyone? I doubt that. I know a lot of people, including your wife. She is still your wife, isn't she? You didn't get a divorce when you started sleeping in the big bed?"

"My life is none of your business."

"Your life is interesting," said Moriarty and drained the glass. "I should have seen that, right from the start. How did I miss it? I could have taken him whenever I wanted and you just showed up, all battle scarred and perfectly fragile and Sherlock took you in, like he always does." Moriarty drummed his fingertips against the arm of the chair. "He used to fix up birds' wings when he was little. Did he ever tell you that?"

"Didn't come up," said John and cleared his throat. "Okay, if you don't have anything useful to say, I'm going."

He got to his feet and moved, his toe hitting the edge of the table hard enough to spill water. He wasn't surprised when Moriarty's hand caught his sleeve, but the hard shove he gave was unexpected. "Don't."

Moriarty sat up straighter, readjusted his t-shirt. "Sensitive," he said and looked up at John. "Sit down, John. I'll tell you what you want."

"You don't know what I want."

"You want me to go away so that you and Sherlock can go play boy scouts and raise that pretty girl together and go to parent's evenings and be _boring_." Moriarty shook his head. "Even when you shag it's boring."

"Thanks for the review," said John. "I'd say something about it being creepy to spy, but it sort of pales in comparison to everything else you've done."

"It's not me who's spying," said Moriarty. "I just peeked in on what was already there. I was hoping for something fun but you're all vanilla, John. Or maybe it's Sherlock who's vanilla. A man who went out to kill with a doctor's bag has got to have his little quirks, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, that's… I'm done," said John and pulled away, rapped on the door and turned back briefly to look at Moriarty.

It was then he saw it, the patch just behind Moriarty's ear. Bare skin pulled tight, pink and still a little angry looking, as though it had healed, but like all scars, there was never quite enough skin to leave it smooth and it dimpled in and would feel like taut silk beneath fingertips.The dark hair was neat everywhere, not quite covering the puckered skin, although they'd tried hard. John recognised an exit wound, a match for his own, a match for Sherlock's. They owned one each, the three of them connected in a way he really wished he hadn't understood.

He swallowed hard and Moriarty leaned back in the chair, his head resting against the fabric, hiding the mark.

"Ask Sherlock if he missed me. Do that for me, John."

John shook his head as the door opened and he could slide out into the hallway. He didn't look at his escort as he stood in the cool corridor, just tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He could smell antiseptic and wondered briefly if this place needed sluicing down frequently, when psychopaths pushed just a little bit too hard and broke their companions.

"Well?"

John opened one eye and on seeing Mycroft, closed it again. "If he's planning to blow the world up, he won't do it until he's impressed Sherlock first."

"That's it?"

"That's it," said John. "You wanted something else, you should have sent someone else in. I don't know any more than I did going in."

"Just that our friend, Jim, still has," Mycroft sighed as he wrapped his tongue round the phrase, "an obsession with my little brother."

"One way of putting it, yeah," said John and scrubbed a hand back through his hair. "Can I take it he's going nowhere?"

"For now, no," said Mycroft. "However, we do need a little more out of him than some already known insight into his desires."

"So send in your lot that do that. Send in Anthea. She could crack him."

"I assure you it's not about cracking him," said Mycroft. "It's about what he wants."

"Right," said John and brushed his hands over his jeans before he stepped away. "Well, you figure that out. I'm going home."

"With so little?" said Mycroft. "Isn't your failure to collect results rather putting your family under threat?"

John looked back over his shoulder. "You tell me," he said. "Is it?"

Mycroft glanced toward his feet and when he looked up, his smile appeared a little less smug. "I can post people to watch over you."

"More of them?"

Mycroft smiled and rested against the handle of his umbrella. "A precaution only, I assure you."

"Oh I'm very reassured," said John and walked through back along the corridor, sure that he'd be stopped if Mycroft wanted it. Sure also that he'd struggle, that he'd welcome a bit of violence and his hands clenched tight into fists as he reached the doors. Anthea offered a perfunctory smile as she opened the familiar car door, but John barely acknowledged it. He wanted to be away, wanted to be home where he could at least make plans for battle, even if he wasn't entirely sure the war that to be fought.

Mrs Hudson opened the door at Baker street, Louise squirming in her arms. "He's upstairs," she said. "I don't mind having her a bit longer, but I do want to go to bridge later. It's too late for them to ask someone else to make up the four."

"It's not a problem," said John and reached for his daughter, lips pressed to the bare fuzz of her hair as he struggled to find his smile. "You go on out, Mrs H. You've done enough. Helped loads, I swear. Thanks."

She beamed and headed back to the kitchen to fetch the baby's bag. "He's being noisy, whatever he's up to. Try and keep the walls in one piece."

"I'll take care of it," said John and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "Have a nice night."

"Oh I will, but if you need me-"

"I know." John smiled and turned to walk up the stairs, aware of the warm and sticky fist against his cheek as he held the baby close. The door to their flat was open and John stepped awkwardly over papers left on the floor. "Someone could fall," he said and Sherlock turned away from the wall to look at him. John took in the photographs pinned and stringed across the mirror and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, glad it's a mutual obsession, then."

"What did he say," said Sherlock as he stepped close and kept his focus on John. "What did he look like, sound like? Did he tell you how he faked it? I suppose he could have counted on someone else taking a shot but I was there, I heard it. I saw it, and it was good. No amateurs. There'd be evidence. And you spoke to him. Tell me what he said, exactly. Every last word, every detail could be vital."

"He fancies you and he took a bullet," said John as he hugged the baby close enough to make her squeal. "And I think he might have sent Mary."

"Really?" asked Sherlock. "Why would he do that? Oh, to separate us. Well, that didn't work out well. A little childish. Perhaps he was lying. He might lie. He's good at lying. Better than anyone would reasonably expect him to be."

John held still as Sherlock paced. The baby settled a little and snuffled against his neck. "He sends his love, by the way."

Sherlock waved it off. "Why would he come back? Why now? He's been back for almost six months and he hasn't come close."

John glanced down at the baby and decided to keep things as normal as he could. Feed the baby, bathe and change her and set her to sleep. He flipped the switch on the kettle and returned to Sherlock. "I don't know what he's got planned, but he wants you to be watching."

"Genius appreciates an audience, you know that."

"I've clapped my hands a time or two," said John. "Can you help?"

"Hmm?"

"Warm the bottle."

"Oh," said Sherlock and nodded absently as he hurried to the kitchen. John settled in the chair, Louise righted in his arms, greedy hands outstretched as she let him know loudly that she was hungry. John comforted her as well as he could, half wishing he could step back a day to when Sherlock managed all of this. The lack of sleep didn't help, Mycroft having spent half the nightand most of the morning warning that Moriarty would try to get to him, that the important thing was to allow him to talk. But John's life was full of a man who talked and that side of Moriarty didn't phase him at all.

Sherlock handed the bottle over as Louise's wails grew higher and John felt an almost instant relief as she suckled fiercely. He blinked as Sherlock absently pushed his hair back from his forehead and the touch of lips against his skin was both unexpected and welcome. He tilted his head up and took the kiss on offer, warm mouth open and soft against his own. "Needed that," he said and Sherlock smiled briefly and perched on the chair opposite.

"So how was it?"

"Fine," said John and licked over his bottom lip. "I mean, you know, as far as meeting multi-murderers goes, it was fine. He was a bit more casually dressed than I remember."

"Well, people will disappoint you like that," said Sherlock and wrapped his arms round his knees. "So, did he make use of your skills as a doctor?"

"Didn't even ask him to cough," said John. "He hasn't stopped thinking about you. What were you playing at on that roof top? Who can fake the best death?"

"You didn't want to know," said Sherlock. "I offered."

"I don't really want to know now," said John. "Two years I lost you and both of you were lying. Is it really a co-incidence?"

"You can hardly think we planned it together."

"No," said John and tipped the bottle up as Louise batted her hands against the sides. "It just seems a bit pointless, since neither one of you died."

"Oh," said Sherlock and frowned. "Do you wish I had?"

"Don't be an idiot," said John. "I don't know what I was doing there. Your brother gave me all these instructions and all I could think about is how much I wanted to smack him in the nose and watch his skin turn purple."

"It's a lovely sentiment."

"I could write poetry."

"Please don't."

John risked a smile. "He said I was interesting."

"Oh?"

"That he made a mistake in dismissing me."

"Obviously," said Sherlock and leaned over to touch John's knee. " You show me the world anew."

"Now who's doing poetry?"

"Ghastly prose," said Sherlock. "I shall do better."

"You do fine," said John and set the empty bottle down. "Help me get her sorted for bed and I'll tell you the rest."

By the time Louise slept soundly in the crib, John was nursing an unbruised tumbler of whiskey and the remains of a bacon sandwich. He slumped in his chair as Sherlock slipped back into place, robe wrapped round and his bare toes curled against the edge of the cushion.

"I don't know what he wants," said John. "Possibly you. I'm pretty sure he wants you to be impressed by him."

"Not any more," said Sherlock. "An arch enemy's only fun when you can avoid them at Christmas."

"Not that we'll be doing that again."

"Mother has asked."

"We'll start our own tradition here," said John and looked back. "He wouldn't say yes or no about Mary. I thought at least I'd get an answer to that."

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah," said John. "It kind of does. I want to know if any of it was real."

"She did love you, John," said Sherlock. "That part was real. And your daughter-"

"Our daughter."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"We're raising her. You're the other man in her life." John shrugged. "Ours."

John answered Sherlock's smile with his own and leaned forward, his hand on Sherlock's knee as he squeezed slowly. "It really can't just be that this is all about you."

"Can't it?"

"No," said John. "I mean God knows I don't have to bolster your ego, but a man doesn't come back from the dead because he fancies someone."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "You'd be surprised at what motivates people."

"You're always telling me it's simple."

"It is, usually," said Sherlock and settled his hand over John's. "I came back."

"It wasn't fancying me. It was Mycroft. So don't try."

Sherlock took a drink and tipped the glass toward John. "I did think about you. Quite genuinely. There were times, quite a few of them, in fact, when I turned to tell you something and you weren't there."

"Whose fault was that?"

"What I'm trying to say is that while I did have a plan and you weren't a part of it," said Sherlock. "I thought of you often and not always in ways I was comfortable with."

John grinned and turned his hand, palm to palm with Sherlock. "You did deal with the cameras, right?"

Sherlock gestured up to where the books had been rearranged. "We're alone."

"Good," said John and leaned in. "So, fantasies, then?"

"John, we've been talking about a man who could do damage to more than just us."

"To coin a phrase, boring," said John and kissed Sherlock, his tongue a brief flicker against Sherlock's lip. "Tell me you thought about me."

Sherlock licked over his lip, clearly tasting the kiss before he shook his head. "It's not sexy."

"And you're the judge of that?"

"I mean I didn't think of you sexually," said Sherlock. "It was always in the middle of something vital. I almost had it and wanted to tell you, to explain and you weren't there."

"So I'm vital to the work?"

"You have your moments."

"Oh. Good," said John and set both tumblers on the floor as he drew Sherlock over to the sofa. As Sherlock lay down on the cushions, John sprawled over him his limbs tangled with Sherlock's own. The kisses were lazy, languid strokes of tongue as John wriggled his fingers beneath Sherlock's t-shirt and teased at the tiny bump of nipple. It stiffened beneath his fingertips and Sherlock rocked his hips up toward John's, his penis growing harder as John pressed down.

John pushed Sherlock's t-shirt up and off, dumping clothes on the floor as he slid his lips along Sherlock's throat. He paused against the pulse, the tremor warm beneath his mouth, the beat quickening as John groped down to palm the length of Sherlock's penis. He could feel it stiffen in his hand, the cotton stretched tight as it rose and swelled in his fingers. Without hesitation, John unzipped and pushed both jeans and pants down, Sherlock's underpants pushed to his hips as John reached for both of them, skin to skin as he rolled his hips on the sofa.

"Do you want this to be quick?"

"Hmm," said John as he slid his spit slicked hand along their skin, erections firm and responsive. 'Not the plan, no."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Might want to slow down just a bit."

John nodded and slowed his fingers and looked between them, arm braced on the back of the sofa. His fascination with different skin pressed against his own still lingered. Sherlock might have been possessed of the same essential parts, but the texture of his penis was different, the close ruffles of his pubic hair less scratchy to John's touch. He was caught up in the contrast and as Sherlock's hands gripped the cheeks of his arse, John giggled.

"You like it when I touch you there."

"Yeah, course I do. I know what it means," said John and leaned down, sucked at Sherlock's bottom lip. "It's 'do come on, John'."

"I assure you, it's not."

"It bloody is," said John. "It's you being horny."

"My penis is in your capable hands," said Sherlock. "I would have thought it a more accurate barometer."

"Sherlock, are you really calling your dick a temperature gauge?"

"A measure of arousal."

"Oh, well if we're getting scientific about things," said John and stroked his hand along them both again. He rolled his hips, head fuzzy from a lack of sleep, a mad encounter and the scent of baby lotion on Sherlock's skin. Sherlock pulled at him, his fingertips bruising the soft flesh of John's arse. "No, it's definitely your hands. Way more telling than a stiff dick."

Sherlock shifted beneath him on the sofa. "Fine. Let's fuck."

"It sounds hot when you say it," said John and leaned in to press his lips against Sherlock's ear. "Say it again."

Sherlock chuckled and nipped at John's ear as he breathed out the words. His hands gripped, pulled John against him and lifted his hips clear of the cushions. "John, I want to feel your penis inside me while I achieve orgasm. Please stop arsing about and get on with it."

"You've got the slickest seduction techniques, Sherlock," said John and reached for Sherlock's robe, certain that the little bottle would always be available. He pulled it free, pooled liquid in his palm and stroked down between Sherlock's thighs. The soft sac brushed against the back of his hand and John touched, pushed lightly against the puckered entrance as Sherlock tried to rid John of his clothes. He barely objected when Sherlock tipped them both of the sofa and demanded they stripped bare and when John climbed back on the cushions, Sherlock sprawled beneath him, John sank home slowly, easing in with heat and warmth, strong hands clutching at his backside as he moved.

He swore beneath his breath and reached back, lifting Sherlock's thigh up higher so he could gain better purchase. "Like this," John said and braced himself above Sherlock. "I should have stayed home. We should have done this."

"Doing it now," said Sherlock and locked his ankles behind John's back. "Besides, you did find out something useful."

"Doesn't feel like it," said John and rocked his hips forward. "Feels like…Sherlock, I can't do this right now."

"Sex?"

"Talking about him," said John and shook his head as he moved faster. "Thinking about him."

"Please don't," said Sherlock and drew John's hand down to his erection. "Two in a bed is ample."

"Sofa."

"Identical principle," said Sherlock and groaned as John's hand quickened. He licked over his bottom lip and arched beneath John. "Can I talk?"

"I've found no earthly way of stopping you so far," said John and bucked harder.

"Oh good," said Sherlock. "You did find out something, John. You discovered that Mycroft-"

"Not about your brother!"

"-that the government has no real plan to do something. You discovered that in throwing you in there, they have no clue what they're doing. You were just bait."

"Marvellous," panted John. "Any chance you can stop bruising my ego?"

"Your ego's fine. You're fucking the genius who loves you," said Sherlock and caught his breath, groaned loudly and spilled against his belly as John picked up speed. John dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder, hips pushed tight against Sherlock's body as he spilled, each drop a slippery pleasure. His arm gave out, belly pressed against the sticky mess on his hand and belly. John turned his head, stubble rubbing against the soft skin of Sherlock's shoulder.

"You're not always a genius," he murmured and grinned as Sherlock gave a noise of objection. "So it's that, is it?"

"What?"

"The L word," said John lazily. "That's why you're doing this."

"It's hardly news. I said it at your wedding."

"Yeah, when I was marrying someone else," said John and moved reluctantly as Sherlock reached for tissues and started to clean up. "But I get it. I know."

"Well there you are. Not news."

"And me too," said John and lifted a hand as Sherlock wiped come from his skin. "You know that."

"I'm aware of it," said Sherlock and lifted an eyebrow as John smiled. "Please don't break out the poetry again, it does give me a headache."

"Arse," said John affectionately and got to his feet, hand out to bring Sherlock to bed. He leaned over the edge of the crib, checked the baby was breathing easily before he climbed onto the mattress. He settled beneath the sheet, the crisp cotton cool against his skin, Sherlock's long body pressed to his back. "We'll work something out," he said and Sherlock sighed against the back of his neck.

"Or you'll punch him in the nose."

John chuckled and closed his eyes. "Satisfying, either way."

"Mycroft or Moriarty?"

"Maybe both," said Sherlock and John nodded and gave in to the sleep that he needed.

Some instinct, deeply ingrained since his days in uniform, roused him in the small hours. It wasn't the baby crying, there wasn't a sound from the crib and he lurched out of bed, naked and hurting something in his left ankle. He stared at the empty crib, the blankets folded neatly and the dint in the head where her head had been so very recently. John pressed his hand to the mattress, felt the warmth and swallowed hard before he turned back and caught his breath when he realised that the bed was still occupied.

He swore loudly as he rushed into the living room, bare feet thudding across the floor and as he skidded to a halt on the rug, John wished he'd bothered to wake Sherlock first.

"Mary," he said as calmly as he could manage. "Give me the baby."

Mary sat comfortably in John's chair, the baby held close. "You might want to put your pants on, John," she said. "You shouldn't treat guests quite so casually."

"Give Louise to me," said John and stepped forward. "How did you get in here?"

"You turned the cameras off," she said and smiled down at the little girl as she stirred. "I thought I'd drop by and say hello."

"Hello?" asked John and tensed as he registered Sherlock beside him, gun in hand and just as naked.

"Mary?" Sherlock shook his head and set the gun down. "Oh, that's all right then."

"All right?" asked John and looked at Sherlock properly. "She broke in. She's got the baby!"

"Oh, Lou'll be fine," said Sherlock and smiled. "Nice to see you again, Mary."

"You too," said Mary and nodded. "Much as I like a floor show, boys, why don't you both put your pants on. Louise'll be fine with me."

"You-" began John and Sherlock leaned forward and plucked the baby from Mary's arms.

"We'll be back in a minute," he said and smiled at her. "Why don't you put the kettle on."

"Okay," she said and as she walked to the kitchen, John stared at Sherlock.

"We're going to have a nice cup of tea?" he asked. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm being hospitable," said Sherlock and tugged at John's shoulder, speaking quietly. "She has a link through to the cameras in here."

"So does everyone, apparently!"

"No, not everyone," said Sherlock and stepped into the bedroom. "Just a select few. Do the maths, John."

John took the shorts that Sherlock passed him and drew them on as Sherlock expertly wrapped Louise up and drew his pyjamas on. "She really is involved with Moriarty," he said and Sherlock shrugged. "No?"

"Perhaps," said Sherlock. "Perhaps it's time we started asking her the right questions."

"Like what? Like why she didn't stay? Why didn't she mention him before? Those ones?"

"Like what does Moriarty really want," said Sherlock. "Inside man. It could be the answer."

"You're fucking kidding me," said John and ran a hand through his hair. "What makes you think she'll tell you anything?"

Sherlock smiled down at the baby. "Oh, just a hunch," he said and caught her hand in his own as she cooed at him. "Let's go be nice to mother, hmm?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest, patient readers, thank you so much for sticking with me through the long hiatus this time.
> 
> I swear, I had eighteenth birthdays, parties and planning to deal with before I could settle back into writing, not to mention crises at work!
> 
> But I am back and I shall do my best to ensure the final chapters are with you soon.
> 
> You are all entirely awesome people. Much love. Always x


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary's midnight visit promises to test both Sherlock and John and the guardianship of the baby.
> 
> There will be threats, curses, revelations and a single shot.
> 
> And smut, because I just like getting them naked. x

Sherlock had many skills that John had expressed to the world, but his ability to deliver a mind bending blow job in the shower had not been publicised.

John rocked back on his heels, eyes closed and hard tile against the back of his head. The lastfew weeks had felt ages long, hours added to each day that he hadn't expected. Even Sherlock, used to running on empty, had yawned on more than one occasion and John had worried an apocalypse was nigh. The naked clutches in the middle of the night had made up for most of it, strong hands on his back, a grunt by his ear and the hot puff of breath on his skin. He'd always thought he was adaptable, but John admitted that waking in the dry desert air was easier than caring for an infant.

That she was still in their care was almost a miracle in itself. John had walked back into the roomover a month ago to where Mary waited, the gun pushed into the pocket of his dressing gown as Sherlock held Louise with expert care. Since the day she left, John hadn't known what he was more frightened of - raising a baby with a man who often required childish discipline himself, or watching the woman with whom he'd fallen in love stroll back into his life. Seeing the way she sat forward in the chair, none of her clothes familiar to John, he was quite clear on which had the advantage.

She kept her hands folded as they entered, her eyes fixed on the tiny bundle in Sherlock's arms. John knew he had to watch for everything, to make sure she couldn't pull a sneaky move that they wouldn't be able to counter, but he couldn't help looking at her. He's seen that certain glow about her, right from the start. Mary Morstan, pretty in a girl next door kind of way, wouldn't have stood out without it, that and the almost cheeky sense of fun that you discovered when she spoke. John had first been flattered by her interest, then captivated with the way the lively woman took an interest in what he liked, what he might like to try, what he wasn't saying at all.

He had loved her, had grabbed tight and clutched her hand when she offered it so freely. No matter how often he thought he should have seen something beyond the shell, Mary had been his lifeline when Sherlock had gone. John had brought himself to believe she was everything he'd been looking for in a woman and more importantly, everything he needed in a life-mate. She had been all of that to him and then suddenly she wasn't. John had floundered for months, sheltered by caring for Sherlock, before he'd woken alone and lonely on Christmas Eve. He wrote the words he said clearly in the Holmes' back room, all of them scribbled over and corrected before he stood in front of Mary and said he didn't care about her past.

Her future problems appeared to still be his privilege and John sat on the arm of Sherlock's chair, the hard edge pressing against his buttocks, Louise's head against his thigh where Sherlock held her. Mary sat up straighter, her body once more her own, her wedding ring gleaming dully on her finger. He couldn't tell whether she'd recovered beneath the baggy jumper she wore, but her hair was neat and had been recently trimmed and her makeup was scant but tidy, the flush on her cheeks warm.

He thought she looked magnificent.

"I thought we could talk about what happens now," she said and as John raised an eyebrow, Sherlock relaxed in the chair.

"What happens now is that you have a nice little visit with your daughter while John and I supervise and when you leave you'll consider leaving a forwarding address."

She raised an eyebrow. "You think I need supervision."

"I think you're a capable and talented opportunist with a flair for taking what you want," said Sherlock. "And since what you want is not what's on offer, supervision is generous, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh," she said. "So it's like that, is it? It's good to know where I stand."

"Just so we're clear."

"Very clear," she said and looked to John. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Little bit," he said. "Why now?"

"Why not," said Mary and shrugged. "I did always plan to come back."

"That was really clear from the note you left."

"I didn't leave a note," she said and then smiled as John stared. "Oh, oh I see. You think I should feel guilty for taking the smartest route for the baby."

"It crossed my mind," said John. "You'd just given birth. You abandoned her."

"I kept her safe," said Mary firmly and looked at Sherlock. "So can I hold her?"

Sherlock glanced at John briefly for the nod before he passed the baby to Mary. She held her carefully, Louise's head nestled in the crook of her arm as Mary settled into John's chair. John was surprised she didn't hold the baby as naturally as he or Sherlock, but then Mary had never really expressed an interest in children until they were expecting one. "She looks like me."

"You did contribute half her genetic makeup," said Sherlock. "I think she looks more like John."

"Poor thing," said John.

"She does, though," said Mary and glanced up at John. "She really is beautiful."

"I think so," said John and folded his arms. "You could have talked to us."

"About what?" she asked. "You were there and I knew you'd deal with this. You've taken care of her and I knew she'd be safer without me."

"Yes, why is that?"

Mary looked at Sherlock. "You know why, so why bother asking."

Sherlock shrugged. "Call it curiosity. I want to hear your response."

"Nice. I'm being analysed by someone who didn't work out whose bed he wanted to lie in before John got in mine," said Mary. "Fine then. I left because there's someone close who'd rather I was dead and who might say the word any minute."

"Moriarty," sighed John. He rubbed his fingers against the bridge of his nose and laughed before he looked back at her. "All this time I wondered and told myself it couldn't be true. And yet, bam, there it is. I even spoke to him and he said it and still, I didn't believe it." John shook his head. "You really did take me for a fool."

"I took what I could get," said Mary. "I haven't worked with him for a long while."

"Oh, great."

"I haven't," said Mary. "Did he say differently."

"No, but then he could have lied to me all the way through."

"He doesn't lie if he doesn't need to," said Mary. "And he usually doesn't need to."

"My wife works for Moriarty."

"Worked," she said. "Like I said, he'd prefer me not here."

"Well he's like that," said John. "Doesn't like loose ends."

"And I'm very loose," said Mary and stroked her fingertips over Louise's hair. "Safer for her for me to stay away while he was watching."

"But you've come back."

"Yes."

"Why?" said John. "Just to see her or-"

"John, do hush," said Sherlock. "She's obviously here to make a clear case for taking Louise with her when she leaves the country. A child does benefit from its mother, after all and Mary's a better shot than you are. She's hardly here for a simple visit and you'll note that her passport is clearly visible in her bag. I can't guess the name but it's unlikely to be Watson given the obvious connection. And be honest, John, it would make things a lot easier for us, no baby underfoot. You could be secure in the knowledge that Mary would take care of Louise as she'd be away from the danger our lifestyle presents." He set a hand down on John's thigh. "It makes sense in every way."

"What?" said John. "What? I'm not giving her Louise."

"I wasn't asking," said Mary and John held a hand out as he stared at Sherlock.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious," said Sherlock. "It's why she's here."

"Have you gone mad? She's not having the baby," said John. "You can't really mean it would be better for Mary to-"

"I can offer her a great life," said Mary. "I can take her somewhere she'll be safe. Somewhere no one will find us and I'll even send you pictures."

"Shut up," said John and stood up. "Just both of you, shut up. You are _not_ taking her."

"Sherlock agrees," said Mary. "And he's right."

Sherlock frowned and looked at her. "I'm always right," said Sherlock. "But I didn't agree and you're not taking Lou."

"Hmm?"

"You said," began John and Sherlock waved his arm dismissively.

"I said it made sense, I didn't say we'd do it," he said. "I'm hardly likely to give up our baby just like that. Do think, John."

"Git," said John under his breath and felt the giggle want to escape. "Why didn't you say that?"

"I thought it was evident."

"Really wasn't."

"You should be more observant," said Sherlock and allowed a brief smile to flicker at the corner of his mouth.

"I'll try harder."

"Touching as this is," said Mary. "I _am_ taking her."

"No," said Sherlock firmly. "You're not. You are going to leave and I do hope, most sincerely, that this time you stay gone."

Mary licked over her bottom lip and kept a firm grip on the baby. "You said it made sense."

"What does that have to do with any of this?" said Sherlock. "Sense would have Mycroft storming the castle and yet we're delightfully free of him for now. Make no mistake, Mary, your welcome here is worn out on John's say so."

"He'd never turn me out," she said and looked to John. "Would you? You're just not like that. You wouldn't keep me away from my daughter."

"She's not," began John carefully and stood up, reached over and plucked the baby from her arms. Louise squawked before she settled into the comfort of her father's arms, face nuzzled in against his dressing gown. He shook his head slowly and stepped back. "She's our daughter. Not yours."

"I gave birth to her."

"And we've been raising her," said John and she raised her eyebrows.

"What, you and Sherlock?" she said and laughed. "No offence, Sherlock, but you can barely look after yourself."

"Not true," said John as Sherlock murmured agreement. "It's not. He's incredible with Louise."

"Well that I can't picture," she said. "Did you google that, too?"

"Books," said Sherlock. "Instinct. A baby's easy if you understand what you're doing."

"I'll learn then," she said.

"No," said John. "I don't know what name you've got on that passport, but as far as I'm concerned, Mary Watson ceased to exist the day you walked out of the hospital."

"Stripping me of that name too?" she asked and got to her feet. "And do I not get a say in this?"

"Say anything you like," said Sherlock. "I'm sure we can spare you a minute before we go back to bed."

"Right," she said and slipped her hand into her pocket, drawing out the gun to take almost casual aim at Sherlock. "You know, I wanted to do this the nice way."

"Breaking in isn't nice," said John. "Put the bloody gun away, Mary. You're not going to shoot anyone with the baby here."

"She'll be fine. She won't remember," said Mary and smiled as she held her arm steady. "So why don't you hand her over now before I put another bullet in your boyfriend."

"God, don't say that," said Sherlock.

"Afraid?"

"No, _boyfriend_ ," said Sherlock. "It's a dreadful term."

"Oh, but you're _fine_ with the gun," said John and turned his body so that the baby was tucked away from Mary's sight. "Mary, put the gun away. You're not going to shoot Sherlock again. We all know you won't kill him."

"Whatever gave you that idea," she said and lifted the gun slightly. "I should have put you down then, Mr Holmes. Things would be so very different."

"Why?" said Sherlock. "You think Magnusson would have kept your secret?"

"I would have dealt with him," she said. "I would have dealt with all of it and John and I would be happy now."

"I don't think so."

"I do," Mary said and took a slow breath as she held Sherlock's gaze. "We were before you came back. We would have been a family, just the three of us. You stole that from me and I've let you get away with it until now."

"Sherlock didn't steal anything," said John. "You can't steal people. And I don't think playing happy families would be on the cards if you killed my best friend."

"You wouldn't know," said Mary. "You didn't know _anything_ until Sherlock opened his mouth."

"He had a right."

"He had a right to be happy," said Mary. "Oh, John would have grieved, but he had me to keep him sane this time. We had our baby on the way. Without you we would have been happy."

"You're certain about that?" said Sherlock.

"We never got the chance to find out."

"No," said Sherlock. "I gave you every chance."

She laughed. "In what way? You didn't leave us alone. You _never_ left us alone. There were always three people in my bed, even when you were off playing at being heroic. John was going to propose the night you got back and I didn't even get that! Once you waltzed back in I had to take it as read because all he could think about was _you_." She took a quick breath and found her smile. "But you're not taking this away from me, Sherlock. Louise is my daughter and she'll be coming with me. Do whatever you have to, but you're not keeping my baby."

John couldn't take his eyes off her. She shone brightly under pressure, he'd always known that, but he'd never seen her look quite so alive before. This was the woman he married and he still didn't know her. For the first time John saw her as a killer, a competent assassin who didn't need anyone to protect her.

He turned quickly, handing the baby to Sherlock who held her close on instinct. And as Mary's aim wavered briefly, John drew the gun from his pocket and shot once, cleanly, the bullet in his chair's cushion and Mary clutching her bloodied hand as her gun clattered to the floor.

Louise let out a loud yell at the noise and though his ears rung from the shot, John stepped forward quickly and picked her gun up from the floor with the edge of his dressing gown. He pulled his belt free and bound her wrists quickly, knee in the centre of her back as she yelped.

"Call your brother."

"Why?" asked Sherlock. "John, you just shot your wife."

"Winged," said John and scrambled to find one of Sherlock's handkerchiefs. He stuffed it in her mouth to muffle the noise that irritated Louise and held his hand out to Sherlock. "Call your brother and give me your belt. I need to tie her ankles together."

"I texted him earlier," said Sherlock as he bounced Louise in his arms and pulled the belt free of the loops. "Common sense, as I said. John, you don't seem to be overly disturbed by this."

"She was pointing a gun at you," said John as he reached for the belt. "Again. You remember what happened last time."

"It does stick out a little in the memory, yes," said Sherlock as John pushed a cushion under Mary's head and walked to the kitchen to get his bag. "John, you didn't need to shoot her on my account. I was on the verge of launching an effective attack."

"Well I'm sorry I missed that," said John as he bent to look at Mary's injured hand. She glared at him as he cleaned the wound carefully, battle dressing applied as he knelt on the floor. "Mary," he said quietly, "you're not what's best for Louise."

She grunted against the handkerchief and he sat back.

"And you were never what was best for me," he said and drew her wedding ring off. "I don't know how you divorce someone who doesn't exist, but I'm going to work it out."

He got to his feet as he heard the footsteps on the stairs. "Mycroft or the police?"

"Mycroft," said Sherlock. "He doesn't like leaving things untidy."

"Well, he's welcome to the cleanup," said John and glanced round at the blood. "Seriously, he does have someone who does that?"

"Several, I imagine," said Sherlock as Louise calmed. "John, there were other options."

"This worked," said John and stepped close, arm up around Sherlock's back, his thumb rubbing Sherlock's elbow. "I protect my family."

"Oh," said Sherlock and offered a quick smile. "And this is…"

"Yeah," said John and patted Sherlock's back before he left to deal with the people at the door. Mycroft's people were devastatingly efficient and though John wondered how many people might have heard the shot, or cared. At that time of night it could have been any wild party. Certainly that was the image Mycroft asked them to keep, should it come up. John watched as they bundled Mary away, destination unknown but certainly not with immediate use of her passport. She never looked at him again, and though it was easier, John felt the door had finally been closed on that part of his life and allowed himself the possibility that he would grieve for it.

Mycroft gestured vaguely at the ruined cushions and day to day dust that fettered 221b. "I take it things will be back to their immaculate best soon," he said as the edges of his lips curled in what may have been a smile. "Do try to be less obvious about your domestics."

"She had a gun," said John and Mycroft tutted.

"She was an assassin, of course she had a gun," he said and sighed. "Am I to take it you spent time on the mundane rather than what she knows about Moriarty?"

"She worked for him," said Sherlock. "But not for some time. Mary was clearly as surprised as the rest of the country that he returned and even more concerned for her well being."

"Well, she's safe now," said Mycroft drily and looked at the three of them. "And how is my niece?"

"A little wet," said Sherlock. "I don't suppose you'd like to-"

"Thank you, no. I am quite sure that counts as fieldwork."

John smiled as the last of the team left the apartment and turned back to Mycroft. "This makes us even."

"Oh not even close," said Mycroft. "It does rather up your balance on the ledger. Shall we consider it your generous contribution to the protection of our society?"

"She wasn't all that dangerous."

"And yet you shot her," said Mycroft. "I'm sure we can take care of Ms Morstan."

"Take care?" asked John. "I don't want her dead."

"Just gone, understood," said Mycroft. "Shall I remind you that my service is not devoted to the security of this single household, or can I take it for granted that you understand what I do is in our country's best interests."

"Mycroft," said Sherlock. "Not dead."

"Fine," said Mycroft. "We'll secure her somewhere far from here where she can be of use. Is that good enough?"

"It'll have to be," said John and took the baby, sniffed and wrinkled his nose. "See you on Sunday, then."

"Oh yes, mother's welcoming party for the baby," said Mycroft. "I can't wait."

"Wonderful," said Sherlock and walked him to the door. "Do bring a gift."

"For mother or the baby?"

"Both," said Sherlock. "A piggy bank would do."

"Fine," said Mycroft. "I'll get it engraved."

He walked out, leaving them alone in the apartment as John changed the baby and Sherlock examined the cushion of John's chair. "I think we'll need a new one," he said and John shrugged. "It's five in the morning. Do we stay up or do you need some sleep?"

"I just shot my wife," said John. "I need a drink."

"Oh," said Sherlock and organised the whiskey as John settled the baby back to sleep. "I thought perhaps you'd want to talk about it."

"A bit," said John and as he took the proffered tumbler. "She was wrong, you know?"

"Well threatening me never seems to turn out in the villain's favour."

John grinned and slunk down on the sofa. "Well, there's that," he said. "But about you. You were in the way."

"That sort of suggests she was right."

"Yeah, but you were in the way because I never stopped thinking about you."

"Again-"

"Because you're the one," said John and Sherlock paused as he walked to the sofa. "I mean you've _always_ been the one, I just didn't figure it out until I got married."

"Is this going to be a romantic conversation?"

John blinked and looked up at Sherlock, taking in the uncertainty in his stance. "Well, it certainly looks that way."

"Right. Good. I do think it may be appropriate, given your recent actions."

"Shooting Mary."

"That was what I meant," said Sherlock. "John, if you're looking for a gesture from me, I can't quite match a bullet in the hand."

"You're not a bad shot."

"I think our gunplay's over for the evening," said Sherlock and sat down next to John. "Are you trying to say three little words."

"I'm not afraid of words."

"No?" said Sherlock. "You haven't said them."

"Do I need to?"

"Not if you don't want to."

"I put a bullet in someone who threatened you," said John.

"And in your eyes a mildly wounded assailant counts as a gesture of love?"

"Maybe," said John. "The thing is, Sherlock, I really wanted it to work with Mary."

"Interesting segue. Are you going to bring up any other of your former lovers?"

John grinned and shook his head. "I wanted it to work with Mary because she was ordinary," he said. "Except she wasn't. And I wanted to be with you because you're extraordinary. You lie, cheat, sulk and behave like a monster sometimes and that's fine. That works for me."

Sherlock frowned. "If there's a compliment in there, I'm struggling to spot it."

"You're an arse," said John. "But you're open about it. Every damn thing you do seems to irritate me to the core. You lie, cheat and you don't include me on things you should do." He shrugged and reached out, his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "Except when you do and it's glorious."

Sherlock pressed a quick kiss against John's palm. "I do try not to leave you out."

"When you think of it."

"Yes."

"Keep doing that," said John and leaned over to take the kiss on offer. Sherlock still smelt sleepy, his skin rougher where he hadn't shaved, his hair mussed from sleep and his breath a reminder of the whiskey. His tongue brushed John's own, explored lazily before he withdrew and John smiled at him, dizzy and relieved that he could sit on his own sofa, could kiss and be kissed. "Those three words," he said quietly. "I mean them."

Sherlock nodded and set the whiskey aside before he leaned close and whispered them against John's ear.

They resonated, in the weeks and months that followed. Sherlock hadn't been any more thoughtful as he worked, the tiredness they both suffered from made it worse. John yelled a lot, sulked a fair amount and Sherlock huffed and wrapped himself up in a cocoon-like dressing gown to shut out the world. They paid attention to Louise, washed and changed and fed and relished in the way she grew and reacted to them both. And when she slept, when they had time alone, those three words were referenced, remembered and relished.

John leaned back in the shower, his skin tingling from being well scrubbed and his groin alive, warm and jumpy as Sherlock lavished attention on him. John's eyes fluttered open as he caught his hand in wet curls, urging Sherlock onward as he braced his feet on the floor. He could smell the coppery scent of the water, the steam cleaning his skin and John looked down, grinning lazily as Sherlock sucked slowly. When he came, his brain tumbling and his vision blurry, John felt capable of supreme clarity.

"Sherlock," John said as he leaned back against the tile, "Let's get married."

"Hmm?" Sherlock got back to his feet and brushed his fingers against his bottom lip. "Didn't hear," he said.

"I said let's get married," said John, loud above the fall of the water. "I want to."

Sherlock stared at him for a second before he scrubbed a hand back through his hair. "You're still married. Are you proposing bigamy?"

"I'm saying your brother could fix that with a flick of his pen," said John. "She never existed."

"She did," said Sherlock and blinked as water dripped in his eye. "Can we have this conversation somewhere civilised?"

"Says the man who tastes of my come," said John and leaned in to kiss him. He set his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "I want this."

Sherlock smiled, nodded and stepped out of the shower to grab a towel. John watched him, the spray bouncing off his head and shoulders as he enjoyed Sherlock methodically drying all the different parts. While he was naturally fond of the currently relaxed length Sherlock gave a cursory rub, John was quite caught up in how beautiful Sherlock looked, stretched out and working over his own body. He liked the arch of his back, the sensitive little spot beneath Sherlock's left rib as he dried his arms and torso.

He didn't particularly like the way Sherlock dumped the wet towel to the floor, but in the grand scheme of things, the makeup sex following an argument about who tidied would be incredible.

John followed Sherlock out, his dressing gown wrapped warmly round his body, his hair damp at the roots, his feet pushed into slippers in need of replacement. Sherlock slouched in his chair as John sat down opposite, the new cushion still in need of breaking in. He spread his feet on the floor and leaned forward, his hand outstretched to touch Sherlock's knee.

"What we do, every day, matters," he said. "And I want nothing more than to keep working with you and coming home to Lou."

"Good," said Sherlock. "I thought that was the case. So why this extra commitment?"

"Because one thing Mary had right is that I want the ordinary as well."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "I can't guarantee that."

"Well, I mean ordinary in that I want to belong to someone," said John and rolled his eyes at Sherlock's expression. "You. I want to belong to you."

"I'm not sure the concept of owning people is appropriate."

"It's romantic. Go with it."

"Okay," said Sherlock. "So I would own you and you would…oh, own me?"

"That's the size of it, yeah," said John and bit his bottom lip briefly. "You're mine."

"Ah," said Sherlock and smiled briefly. "My John Watson."

"I think that's always been the case," said John. "So I'd like to make a statement about that."

"Here?"

"In public," said John. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, I'd like to make it official."

"In case of what?"

"Not in case of anything," said John. "Just because I want to."

"Oh."

"Do you? Want to?"

Sherlock huffed before he leaned forward, forehead close to John's. "I should like to adopt Louise," he said. "And if it means this much to you, I should very much like to be married. Though please, no napkins. And I'm not overly fond of yellow."

"It's fine. Whatever you want," said John and settled his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "I don't know what's coming," he said. "I don't know what Moriarty has planned and I don't know if there's some deep plan that we're a part of."

"Well your lack of insight is hardly news."

John grinned. "But I don't want what we are to be skipped over, just cracks in the pavement. I want this to matter too."

Sherlock leaned forward, tilted his head and pressed his mouth to John's own. His tongue caressed John's bottom lip, his teeth grazed there before he deepened the kiss, soft and slow in spite of the stubble on John's chin. John smiled as he drew back, his hand settled beneath Sherlock's dressing gown. "I think that's my most successful proposal."

"You coped admirably," said Sherlock. "How do you think it went?"

"Well you said yes," said John. "It's a good indicator."

"So it is," said Sherlock and reached out to unfasten John's belt. "Sex is appropriate now?"

"Very," said John and breathed in as Sherlock pressed his mouth against his neck. He buried his nose in the drying curls, closed his eyes as Sherlock's fingers pushed aside the gown and stroked lightly over the skin beneath. John moaned, ruffling the strands of Sherlock's hair as dextrous fingers brushed against his inner thigh, each nerve ending singing as his cock rose, swelled and pushed against his belly where he bent over.

"God, this is something else," John murmured as Sherlock's fingers slid lower, stroked over the neatly trimmed sac beneath his erection. He grinned, almost giggled at the whisper like touch and pushed at Sherlock's dressing gown, easing it off his shoulders so he could press closer to the naked flesh of his lover. When Sherlock dropped to his knees, John sighed happily, in anticipation of the blow job that didn't quite come. He risked opening his eyes as Sherlock pushed at him, urged him back on the chair, thighs still spread and almost dizzy with lust.

"Sherlock," he said and glanced down as he allowed himself to be expertly manoeuvred. He wanted to ask what Sherlock had in mind, but it became immediately clear as Sherlock leaned in, his tongue brushing against the smooth skin behind his balls and the tight and puckered entrance behind it. He clutched the edge of the chair arm, his mouth open to ask, but the question died away at the sensation of being tongued, kissed, licked in the strangest of places.

They'd fucked everywhere, tongues and teeth and the feel of fingers stroking desperately in the darkness. When it had been more, when John had felt that need to drive in deep, Sherlock had always obliged but never shown any desire to reciprocate. Apparently that changed with a marriage proposal and John moaned stretched his free hand out to stroke Sherlock's hair. His fingers knotted in tight springy curls, not yet styled post shower as Sherlock moved faster, his gestures more determined as he used fingers and tongue to push at that tight little hole.

John groaned his name, back arched on the chair as his fingers dug into the chair arm and when he risked looking down, John met Sherlock's eyes and clenched tight at the open lust he read there. He scrambled, hand pushed deep in his pocket to find the tube he'd grown accustomed to keeping handy. The lid flipped off, he dropped it on his belly and set his hand back on the chair as Sherlock lifted his head slightly.

"I want this," said Sherlock and John nodded.

"Yeah, me too," he said and felt his breath coming in short bursts. He watched as Sherlock leaned up, fingers stroking carefully, pushing and entering as John bit down on his lip. As Sherlock slicked his hand and erection, John moved carefully, artfully, spreading his legs wider, his ass pushed against the edge of the cushions. He clutched the sides of the chair with both hands as Sherlock stroked the tip of his erection down, teased at the tight little entrance and pushed forward. He couldn't contain the grunt as Sherlock pushed harder.

Sherlock reached out, hand on John's hip. "Easy," he said and John giggled, hissed behind his teeth.

"You go easy," he said. "I'm the one getting fucked here."

"That is the general idea," said Sherlock and shifted his hips again as John jumped. "You have an exquisite arse," he said and John licked his lip, tasting his own grin. "It's firm and well muscled. You are beautiful to me in so many ways, every last sensation of your skin is an etch in my mind, but right now you seem perfect."

"Yeah, right, perfect," said John and huffed out a breath as Sherlock leaned in again. "Not perfect. I'm flawed."

"Who isn't?" said Sherlock and leaned forward, his feet braced on the floor as he covered John's body with his own. "But you are perfect, nonetheless."

"Who says that when they're fucking?"

"Errant geniuses, apparently," said Sherlock and leaned in closer, his hands sliding over John's torso to bring him closer still. John tentatively moved a foot, his knees grazing Sherlock's sides as he slowed his breathing to match the languid thrusts he took. The discomfort remained as Sherlock leaned forward, but the kissing helped. He concentrated, opening his mouth and his body as Sherlock rocked, eased in and back and in again. John was conscious of the rub against his penis, the rough curls on Sherlock's belly teasing and making his erection throb. As he breathed in Sherlock's kisses, he could feel a ticklish pleasure and a certain satisfaction as Sherlock groaned against his mouth.

He could feel the heat between them building, his thighs squeezing as Sherlock's thrusts grew stronger, harder against his body. John held tight, his fingers stroking over Sherlock's back, knocked away only when Sherlock reached between them to take a firm grip of John's cock. John arched his back at the contact, shivering as Sherlock thrust into him deeply. He could feel the pulse building behind his balls, spreading in tight heat across his skin until Sherlock bucked his hips and John spilled, shameless and blissfully eager, a splash across his belly and Sherlock's chest. He felt Sherlock's belly tighten as he worked toward his own climax and John slid down, feeling limbless as Sherlock dropped down, sweating against his skin.

John lifted a hand cautiously and stroked the back of Sherlock's neck.

"And that's how a genius fucks your brains out," said John lightly, relishing the rumble of Sherlock's laugh. "Not bad, Sherlock."

"Well, I like to impress," said Sherlock and lifted his head, grin etched across fine skin. "One should always know the worst of their potential spouse."

"Fakes death, lies, forgets you exist?"

"I was going with shows off," said Sherlock. "And you are petulant and blind."

"I am not!"

Sherlock grinned and eased back, leaving John wincing slightly before he could ease his legs back down. He moved cautiously, aware of an ache but no pain and a slippery, uncomfortable sensation between his cheeks. A swift inspection in the bathroom mirror revealed nothing but well used flesh and he cleaned himself carefully before he pushed open the bedroom door.

He wasn't entirely surprised to find Sherlock lying on the bed, Louise sprawled against his chest, sucking a chubby little hand as she practised lifting her head. John grinned as he climbed onto the mattress, dismissing Sherlock's raised hand as he leaned over and kissed her head before settling back against the pillows. He wrapped his arm round Sherlock as the man shifted easily and enjoyed the snuggling neither of them had been particularly familiar with.

"We can beat him, you know," said John and Sherlock nodded as Louise dropped her head again. "You and me."

"Against the world?"

"Careful, you remember how that went last time."

"It rings a bell," said Sherlock and turned his head. "It's never going to be easy."

"Some things are," said John and yawned. "This."

"You said raising her is going to be the most difficult."

"Maybe," said John. "Just another adventure, though."

"So it is," said Sherlock and rested his free hand against John. "Together, then."

John nodded and closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge that nothing would be safe, that he didn't know what would happen next and that he wouldn't be alone.

For better or worse, John finally achieved domesticity in the comfort of Sherlock Holmes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been so supportive through the writing of this. It lives as my hope for what happens behind season four, a natural consequence of season three. You have been wonderful and if you've stuck with this until now, I hope it gives you an end you can live with.
> 
> Much love and oodles of cuddles xxx


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